BY  MARION  HARLAND 


Some  Colonial  Homesteads,  and  Their 
Stories.     With  S6  illustrations.    3^,  gilt  top, 

$3.00 

Where  Ghosts  Walk.  The  Haunts  of 
Familiar  Characters  in  History  and  Liter- 
ature.    With  33  illustrations.     S",  gilt  top, 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London 


WHERE   GHOSTS  WALK 


Savonarola  in  his  Cell  at  San  Alarco. 


Where 
Ghosts 
Walk 


©  The  Haunts  of 
Familiar  Characters 
®  in  History  and 
Literature       ©        © 


By 

Marion   Harland 

Author  of  "  Some  Colonial  Homesteads,"  etc. 


Illustrated 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 

27  West  Twenty-Third  Street  24  Bedford  Street,  Strand 

Ube  Itnictierboclter  prees 


Copyright,  i8g8 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 

'1  17 


Ube  ttnicherbochec  |pree6,  1\cw  Uorh 


To  My  Daughters, — 
CHRISTINE  TERHUNE  HERRICK, 

IN  WHOSE  DEAR  COMPANY  1  VISITED  THE  SCENES  SKETCHED 

IN   THESE   PAGES, 

AND 

VIRGINIA    BELLE  VAN  DE  WATER, 

my  patient  and  faithful  amanuensis  in  the 

preparation  of  the  manuscript 

for  the  press, — 

This  Volume  is 
Affectionately  Dedicated. 


MARION  HARLAND. 


London,  England, 

August,  iSgS. 


Five  of  tlie  sketches  included  in  this  book  are  reprinted 
by  the  courtesy  of  the  publishers,  Harper  &  Brothers,  from 
the  columns  of  Harper  s  Bazar. 


-i)  k 


CONTENTS 


1. — Two  Little  Rooms 

II. — "Only  a  But  an'  a  Ben" 

III. — "  Hei?  Gloomy  Honeymoon  ' 

IV. — "An    Eating-House    for    Goodly 
Fare "  .... 

V. — No.  24  Ciieyne  Row 

VI. — Dante's  Every-Day  Wife 

VII. — The  Prophet  of  San  Marco 

VIII. — A  Fourteenth-Century  New  Wo 

MAN 

IX. — The  Ginevra  Tale 

X. — John  Keats  in  Rome 
XI. — Told  on  the  Lagoon 
XII. — In  Ravenna 
XIII. — II   Magnifico 
XIV. — As  IN   David's  Day 
XV. — In  Villette 


17 
29 

47 

63 

83 

103 

121 

147 
163 

185 
205 
231 
261 

277 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Savonarola  in  his  Cell      .        Frontispiece 
Queen  Mary's  Bedroom,  Holyrood  Pal- 
ace   4 

Holyrood   Palace,  with  Arthur's  Seat 

IN  the  Distance    .....       io 
"Bed-place"  in  which  Burns  was  Born  .       20 

The  Burns  Cottage 26 

Wolsey's  Hall,  Hampton  Court  .  .  32 
Hampton  Court  Palace  ....  34 
Entrance  to  the  "Old  Cheshire  Cheese" 

IN  Wine  Office  Court  *       .  50 

From  an  original  drawing  by  Herbert  Railton. 

Johnson's  Seat,  with  Portrait.      '■  Old 

Cheshire  Cheese"*      ....       52 

By  Seymour  Lucas,  B.A. 
Staircase  in  "  Old  Cheshire  Cheese  "  *   .       56 
From  an  original  drawing  by  Herbert  Railton. 

*  By  permission  of  ^Tr.  Charles  Moore. 
ix 


X 


Illustrations 


"The  Cosey  Corner"  in  "Old  Cheshire 

Cheese  "  *       .         .         .         .         .         .60 

By  Seymour  Lucas,  R.A. 
Caklyle's  Attic  Study        ....       70 

Carlyle's  House  and  Garden    ...       80 
Church  of  San  Martino,  in  which  Dante 

was  Married  .....       92 

Dante   Alighieri,   from    the    Fresco    by 

Giotto,  Florence         ....       98 

Cell  of  Savonarola  in  Convent  of  San 

Marco 108 

Palazzo  Vecchio,  Florence  .  .  .118 
Entrance  to  Saint  Catherine's  House  .  126 
Saint  Catherine  of  Siena  .         .         .     132 

Headquarters   of  the  Misericordia   in 

Florence 152 

Mercato  Vecchio  (now  Demolished)        .     154 
Graves  of  Keats  and  Severn  in  the  Pro- 
testant Cemetery  in  Rome         .         .170 
Shelley's  Tomb  in  the  Protestant  Ceme- 
tery, Rome 184 

The  "Cathedral  Group"  of  Torcello  .     188 
Bishop's  Throne  in  Cathedral  of  Tor- 
cello.     Built  by  Orso  Orseoli  .         .     194 
Byron's  House  in  Ravenna         .         .         .     210 


*  By  permission  of  Mr.  Charles  Moore. 


Illustrations  xi 

PAGE 

Dante's  Tomb  in  Ravenna  .         .  220 

Lorenzo  the  Magnificent  .  .  244 

LiLiED  Pool  and  Fountain  in  Grounds 

OF  Villa  Caregci          .         .         .  250 
A  Syrian  Professional  Dancer  and  Mu- 
sician        272 

From  photoi^raph   in   the   "  Christian  Herald" 

collection. 

Public  Park  of  Brussels    .         .         .         •  284 
The  Garret  in  Madame  Beck's  House  290 
Forbidden  Walk  in  Madame  Beck's  Gar- 
den, with  Adjacent  College  Build- 
ings           292 

In  Madame  Beck's  Garden         .         .         .  296 


I 

TWO  LITTLE   ROOMS 


TWO  LITTLE  ROOMS 


THE  "  Supplng-Room  "  of  Mary  Stuart, 
in  Holyrood  Palace,  is  the  smallest 
of  the  royal  suite.  It  is  a  mere  closet, 
and  now  bare  and  depressing  to  a  degree 
utterly  incompatible  with  our  ideas  of 
tolerable  comfort,  until  we  remind  our- 
selves that  the  stone  walls  were  once 
masked  by  richly  wrought  hangings  and 
the  cold  floors  softened  by  carpets 
brought,  or  imported,  by  Mary  into  rug- 
ged Scotland  from  her  beloved  France. 

A  small  door  opens  into  a  closet  used 
for  storing  wines  and  other  accompani- 
ments of  the  petits  sotipers  which  the 
Queen  was  fond  of  giving  to  her  inti- 
mates. The  entrance  to  the  supping-room 
is  from  her  bedchamber.  The  walls  of 
this  are  still  hung  with  tapestries  selected 
3 


4  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

by  her,  a  faded  confusion  of  knights  in 
armour  and  plunging  horses.  The  cano- 
pied bed,  covered  with  a  tattered  silk  cov- 
erlet, was  also  hers.  Over  the  mantel  is  a 
half-length  portrait  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 
We  hope — mercifully — that  it  was  not 
here  in  her  hapless  rival's  time. 

The  tapestry  is  looped  away  from  the 
door  of  the  supping-room,  and  from  an- 
other and  a  smaller  door  close  beside 
it,  raised  by  a  single  step  from  the  floor. 
This  leads  to  the  winding  stone  stair  con- 
necting the  Queen's  bedchamber  with 
Darnley's.  The  little  door  is  kept  locked. 
Darnley  had  the  key,  and  his  alone  was 
the  right  to  use  it  on  Saturday  night,  the 
ninth  of  March,  1566,  when  Queen  Mary 
had  bidden  a  few  friends  to  supper.  How 
few,  we  comprehend  as  we  survey  the  tiny 
withdrawing-room.  Her  half-sister,  the 
Countess  of  Argyle,  two  ladies-in-waiting, 
a  couple  of  gentlemen  of  the  Court,  a  page 
who  held  the  candles,  and  her  Italian  Sec- 
retary, David  Rizzio,  must  have  crowded 
the  closet  to  discomfort  when  the  table 
and  chairs  were  in  place. 


Two  Little  Rooms  5 

When  Darnley — otherwise  King  Henry 
and  husband  of  the  Queen,  who,  hke  Saul, 
was  higher  than  any  of  the  people  from 
his  shoulders  and  upward, — stooped  to 
clear  the  lintel  of  the  low  doorway,  and 
showed  to  the  party  his  handsome  face, 
flushed  with  wine,  nobody  was  surprised. 
As  he  seated  himself  upon  the  elbow  of 
his  wife's  chair,  and  put  his  arm  about  her 
waist,  the  fairest  face  in  all  Scotland  was 
lifted,  smilingly  expectant,  to  his.  The 
change  of  position  showed  to  Mary  what 
she,  at  the  first  glance,  mistook  for  the 
ghost  of  Lord  Ruthven,  in  full  armour, 
filling  up  the  door  behind  her.  He  had 
arisen  from  a  sick-bed  to  lead  the  con- 
spirators. 

We  all  know  the  story, — better  perhaps 
than  any  other  in  the  records  of  a  land 
whose  history  is  a  continuous  romance. 
Rizzio,  torn  from  his  frantic  clinging 
to  the  skirts  of  his  Royal  employer, 
was  dragged  through  the  bedroom  and 
through  the  larger  audience-room  beyond, 
there  dispatched  by  fifty-six  dagger- 
thrusts,    then    kicked,    like    a    dead    dog, 


6  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

down  the  palace  stairs  into  the  court 
below. 

In  an  affidavit  prepared  by  Ruthven  he 
"  takes  God  to  record  that  the  said  Davie 
received  never  a  stroke  in  Her  Majesty's 
presence,  nor  was  not  stricken  till  he  was 
at  the  farthest  door  of  Her  Majesty's  utter 
chamber." 

His  insistence  upon  this  evidence  of 
respectful  forbearance  in  the  Royal 
presence  may  be  a  cruel  refinement  of 
punctilio,  but,  if  it  be  true,  it  disposes 
thoroughly  of  the  historic  blood-stains 
upon  the  floor  of  the  little  inner  room, 
which  even  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  disposed 
to  believe  genuine,  and  which  the  con- 
scientious annalist,  Robert  Chambers,  does 
not  gainsay.  We  look  vainly  for  them 
to-day  and  openly  avow  our  disappoint- 
ment. The  hoary  custodian  declares 
boldly  that  he  "  got  tired  of  renewing " 
the  brown  blotches. 

"  The  floor  was  relaid  two  hundred  and 
more  years  ago,"  he  says.  "  Yet  I  found 
the  stains  here  when  I  came,  and  when 
they  wore  out  visitors  insisted  upon  seeing 


Two  Little  Rooms  7 

them.  So  " — with  a  shrug  that  is  more 
French  than  Scottish — "what  was  I  to 
do?" 

The  first  shock  of  disillusionment  over, 
imagination  rallies  to  contemplate  the 
actual  features  of  the  tragedy.  Queries 
which  no  man  living  can  answer,  and 
touching  which  contemporary  records  are 
mute,  press  to  our  lips. 

Did  Mary  sleep  in  her  own  bed  that 
night?  Was  the  Sunday-morning  inter- 
view with  her  weak  and  vicious  boy-hus- 
band that  terminated  in  their  reconciliation, 
held  in  the  bedroom,  or  in  the  audience- 
chamber  beyond  ?  By  what  wiles  did  he 
induce  her  to  forego  the  purpose  ex- 
pressed in  the  impassioned  outbreak  that 
met  his  first  words  of  penitence  ? 

"  You  have  done  me  such  a  wrong  that 
neither  the  recollection  of  our  early  friend- 
ship, nor  all  the  hope  you  can  give  me  of 
the  future,  can  ever  make  me  forget  it  !  " 

Darnley  "  thankfully  received  "  her  half- 
brother  Murray  on  Sabbath  evening,  and 
Mary  would  not  suffer  her  kinsman  to 
sup  with   Morton   as  had  been  planned, 


8  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

but  kept  him  with  her  all  the  evening. 
She  "  embraced  and  kissed  him,  alleging 
that  in  case  he  had  been  at  home,  he 
would  not  have  suffered  her  to  have  been 
so  incourteously  handled." 

Did  the  three,  Darnley,  Murray,  and 
Murray's  sister,  whose  talk  "  so  moved 
him  that  the  tears  fell  from  his  eyne,"  sup 
amicably  and  not  uncheerfully  in  this  room 
that  Sunday  night  ? 

On  Monday,  "  Her  Majesty  took  the 
King  by  one  hand  and  the  Earl  of  Mur- 
ray by  the  other,  and  walked  in  her  utter 
chamber" — /.  ^,,  the  audience-chamber  up- 
on the  threshold  of  which  Rizzio's  blood 
was  hardly  dry — "  the  space  of  an  hour." 

What  did  they  talk  of  while  pacing  the 
floor  over  which  the  shrieking  favourite 
was  dragged  by  his  murderers  forty-eight 
hours  before  ? 

History  never  has,  and  never  will  clear 
up  the  "  muddle." 

Her  child — James  First  of  England 
and  Sixth  of  Scotland — was  born  on  the 
nineteenth  of  June  of  that  same  year,  in 
another   little    room   no   larger  than   the 


Two  Little  Rooms  9 

supping-closet  of  Holyrood,  but  in  the 
stronger  Castle  of  Edinburgh.  The  walls 
are  panelled  with  oak,  blackened  by  age. 
The  initials  "  M.  R."  and  "  I.  R."  are 
wrought  into  the  carvings  of  the  ceiling. 
A  shield  upon  the  wall  above  the  fireplace 
bears  the  inscription : 

"19  JVNII.    1566." 

Above  the  only  spot  in  the  room  where 
the  bed  could  have  stood,  the  royal  arms 
are  emblazoned,  and  beneath  is  what  pur- 
ports to  be  "  the  young  mother's  prayer 
of  thanksgiving  on  that  auspicious  occa- 
sion " — in  black-letter  : 

^orb  lestt  C^rgst,  t^at  trohjnit  tuas  faitlj  ^^oxnt, 
^reserfae  l^t  ^irtl^,  qu^ais  ^abgie  Ijtir  is  hoxnt, 
^nb  senb  ^ir  ^onne  eutcessioitc,  to  ^eigne  still 
^ang  in  t^is  ^calme,  if  t^at  it  be  t^g  bill. 
^Is  grant,  6  Iforb,  qu^at  tbtx  of  ^ir  prosetb, 
^e  to  t^g  (iloric,  Honer  anb  ^rais,  sobiib. 

The  spacious  apartment  adjoining  the 
wee  inner  room  was  tapestried  for  Mary's 
use  with  "  cloth-of-gold  and  brocaded  taf- 
feta. The  floors  were  covered  with  Turk- 
ish rugs,  the  tables  were  of  massive  oak, 


lo  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

elaborately  carved  ;  the  chairs  were  cov- 
ered with  gilded  leather  and  had  cushions 
of  brocade  and  damask." 

We  hearken  indifferently  to  the  cata- 
logue, and  turn  back  to  our  little  room. 
Mary  entered  Edinburgh  Castle,  by  the 
advice  of  her  Privy  Council,  on  the  third 
of  April,  and,  as  was  the  royal  etiquette  in 
such  circumstances,  took  to  her  chamber 
on  the  third  of  June.  From  the  single 
window  of  this  she  looked  down  upon  her 
capital  city,  that  had  already  begun  to  dis- 
trust her.  Beyond  the  housetops  towered 
the  broad  bulk  of  Arthur's  Seat,  seen  at  a 
greater  distance  than  from  Holyrood,  but 
in  the  perspective  looking  yet  more  like  a 
couchant  lion,  watchful  of  Scotland's  hon- 
our and  Scotland's  religion.  She  must  al- 
most have  hated  the  sight  of  it  during 
that  weary  fortnight  of  waiting. 

The  room  is  irregular  in  shape  and  less 
than  eight  feet  square.  The  bed  must 
have  been  a  mere  cot,  and  if  other  besides 
Mary  Beaton — now  Lady  Boyne — and 
the  court  physician  were  present,  there 
could  not  have  been  left  space  for  more 


Two  Little  Rooms  n 

furniture  than  the  quaint  arm-chair  still 
standing  against  the  wainscot  and  which 
we  are  told  was  here  then. 

Yet  tall  Darnley  was  accompanied  by 
at  least  one  friend  when  he  visited  his 
wife  at  two  o'clock  of  the  same  day,  the 
Prince  having  been  born  between  nine 
and  ten  in  the  morning.  Mary,  with  her 
own  hand,  drew  aside  the  coverings  from 
the  baby's  face. 

"  My  Lord,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "  God 
has  given  us  a  son." 

She  would  have  been  more  than  woman 
if,  in  the  weakness  of  the  hour,  she  had 
not  referred  to  the  risk  she  and  the  heir 
to  the  crown  had  run  on  that  awful  Satur- 
day night,  three  months  agone. 

"Sweet  Madam,"  pleaded  the  father 
(himself  not  yet  one-and-twenty),  "  is  this 
the  promise  that  you  made,  that  you  would 
forget  and  forgive  all  ?  " 

"  I  have  forgiven  all,"  said  the  Queen. 
"  I  never  will  forget." 

Darnley  fidgeted  uneasily. 

"  Madam,  these  things  are  past." 

**  Then,"  was  the  answer,  "  let  them  go." 


12  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

The  record  of  this  interview  is  the 
only  glimpse  we  have  of  anything  that 
passed  in  the  strait  birth-chamber  in  the 
after  part  of  that  day. 

Before  the  visitor  enters  the  Castle  his 
attention  is  directed  to  a  section  of  com- 
paratively new  masonry  in  the  outer  wall 
in  ominous  juxtaposition  to  the  board 
lettered,  "  Queen  Mary's  Apartments." 
The  story  told  and  believed  by  guides 
and  townspeople,  and  set  down  without 
comment  in  guide-books  to  Edinburgh 
Castle,  is  that,  in  1830,  workmen  engaged 
in  repointing  the  masonry  noticed  that 
the  wall  sounded  hollow  at  that  spot,  and 
removed  several  stones  to  get  at  the 
cavity.  They  found  behind  them  in  "a 
recess  measuring  about  two  feet  six  inches 
by  one  foot,"  the  skeleton  of  a  male  infant 
in  an  oak  coffin,  "  evidently  of  great  anti- 
quity and  much  decayed." 

I  copy  the  rest  of  the  record  : 

"  The  remains  were  wrapped  in  a  cloth, 
believed  to  be  woollen,  very  thick,  and 
somewhat  resembling  leather,  and  within 
this  the  remains  of  a  richly  embroidered 


Two  Little  Rooms  13 

silk  covering.  Two  initials  were  wrought 
upon  it,  and  one  of  them,  an  /,  was  dis- 
tinctly visible.  By  order  of  Major-General 
Thackery,  then  commanding  the  Royal 
Engineers,  the  crumbling  relic  of  humanity 
was  again  restored  to  its  peculiar  resting- 
place,  and  the  aperture  closed  up." 

We  discuss,  in  guarded  tones,  the 
incident  that  may  have  been  an  Event, 
while  we  stand  in  the  deeply  embrasured 
window  of  the  little  room,  the  black-letter 
inscription,  which  Mary  did  not  indite, 
before  us.  Then  we  pass,  treading  lightly, 
as  might  befit  the  bearers  of  a  moment- 
ous state  secret,  into  the  larger  apartment 
for  a  critical  inspection  of  the  unpleasing 
visage  of  James  First  of  England  and 
Sixth  of  Scotland.  "  The  son  who,  I 
hope,  shall  first  unite  the  two  kingdoms 
of  Scotland  and  England,"  said  Mary  to 
an  English  gentleman  who  accompanied 
Darnley  upon  the  visit  alluded  to  just 
now. 

The  peace  of  both  kingdoms  and  the 
perpetuity  of  Scottish  national  existence 
depended  upon  the  breath  of  the  infant 


14  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

whose  birth  was  preceded  by  such  stress 
of  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death  as 
might  well  have  cost  mother  and  child 
their  lives. 

His  father,  near  akin  to  both  Mary  and 
Elizabeth,  was  "  a  comely  Prince,  of  a 
fair  and  large  stature  of  body,  pleasant 
in  countenance,  affable  to  all  men,  as  well 
exercised  in  martial  pastimes  upon  horse- 
back as  any  Prince  of  that  age,  but  was 
so  facile  he  could  conceal  no  secret," 
writes  one  historian.  Another — "  He  was 
of  a  comely  stature,  and  none  was  like  unto 
him  within  this  island  .  ,  .  prompt 
and  ready  for  all  games  and  sports." 
Still  another,  that  he  was  "  accomplished 
in  all  excellent  endowments,  both  of  body 
and  of  mind." 

The  personal  and  mental  charms  of 
Mary  Stuart  need  no  recapitulation.  No 
other  woman  known  to  history,  Cleopatra 
not  excepted,  ever  exercised  such  magic 
sway  over  whomsoever  she  willed  to 
captivate. 

Her  best  authenticated  portrait,  taken 
when    she   was    Dauphine    of    France,   is 


Two  Little  Rooms  15 

upon  the  same  wall  and  in  a  line  with 
that  of  "  James  VI.,  son  of  Queen  Mary 
and  Lord  Henry  Darnley." 

We  look  from  the  pictured  face  of  the 
beautiful  woman  to  that  of  the  homely, 
boorish  successor  of  two  famous  queens, 
recalling  that  he  was  also  gawky  in  car- 
riage, plebeian  in  taste,  and  so  cowardly 
that  he  padded  his  doublet  for  fear  of 
the  assassin's  knife,  and  loathed  the  sight 
of  warlike  weapons, — and  account  this, 
the  offspring  of  royal  parents,  a  freak  of 
heredity.  With  a  sort  of  passionate  curi- 
osity that  burns  within  us  like  a  fever, 
we  query  again,  and  always  vainly,  what 
never-to-be-revealed  scenes  went  on  in 
that  little  room  on  the  nineteenth  day  of 
June,  1566,  where  lately  wedded  Mary 
Beaton  kept  guard  over  the  exhausted 
mother  and  the  Prince  who  was  to  unite 
the  kingdoms  of  Scotland  and  of  Eng- 
land. 


II 


ONLY  A  BUT  AN'  A  BEN  " 


17 


II 

"ONLY  A  BUT  AN'  A  BEN" 

TO  say  that  the  "  auld  clay  biggin  "  in 
which  Robert  Burns  was  born  is 
humble  and  homely,  even  for  a  peasant's 
thatched  cottage,  is  to  give  an  inadequate 
idea  of  the  place  to  one  who  has  never 
stood  within  it.  The  four-roomed  story- 
and-a-half  Shakespeare  house  at  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon  is  commodious  and  more 
than  respectable  beside  it. 

If  chimney,  dresser,  pantry,  and  bed- 
place  were  taken  out  of  the  "  but,"  or 
kitchen,  we  should  have  a  chamber  meas- 
uring fifteen  feet  one  way  and  sixteen  the 
other.  The  projections  I  have  enumer- 
ated contract  the  clear  space  to  about  ten 
feet.  The  floor  is  of  flat  stones,  irregu- 
19 


20  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

larly  laid,  and  the  interstices  are  filled 
with  mortar.  The  "  bed-place  "  is  a  niche 
in  the  wall  opposite  the  chimney — a  com- 
mon feature  in  Scottish  farmsteads  and 
cottages.  It  is  between  three  and  four 
feet  deep,  and  a  trifle  over  five  feet  long, 
and  is  filled  by  a  bed  covered  with  a  dark 
counterpane  of  homespun.  The  open 
front  is  protected  by  a  coarse  network  of 
wire,  as  royal  regalia  and  delicate  works 
of  art  are  shielded  from  lawless  handling. 
Blue  curtains,  that,  when  closed,  hid  bed 
and  occupants,  are  pulled  back  to  reveal 
recess  and  furniture.  Bedstead  there  is 
none,  the  bedding  being  laid  upon  a  ledge 
of  like  material  with  the  stone  and  plas- 
ter walls.  A  valance  hangs  from  it  to 
the  floor. 

The  alcove  is  a  darksome  hole,  even 
now  that  modern  prejudice  has  cut  a  win- 
dow of  fair  size  in  the  front  wall  of  the 
lowly  room.  All  the  daylight  that  made 
its  way  to  the  eyes  of  the  new-born  baby 
boy,  one  hundred  and  thirty-nine  years 
agone,  stole  in  through  an  opening  eight- 
een inches  deep,  filled  with  four  six-inch 


"  Only  a  But  an'  a  Ben  "        21 

panes  of  glass,  set  in  a  heavy  sash.  This 
window  looks  out  upon  a  grass-plot  that 
then  formed  a  part  of  the  "  sma'  croft " 
tilled  by  "  William  Burns,  Farmer,"  as  he 
is  described  upon  the  family  grave  in  Al- 
loway  Kirkyard. 

We  gasp  involuntarily  as  the  civil  cus- 
todian tells  the  story  of  the  solitary  win- 
dow, and  points  out  that  there  was  no 
outer  door  to  the  "  but." 

Her  consolatory  remark,  "  There  was 
the  light  from  the  fireplace,  of  course," 
helps  us  to  reconstruct  for  ourselves  a 
scene  with  which  she  and  other  "  improve- 
ments "  have  nothing  to  do. 

The  faint  blue  reek  pervading  the  room 
from  the  low  peat  fire  in  the  grate  gives  a 
touch  of  local  atmosphere  essentially  Scot- 
tish. The  fire  burned  more  brightly  on 
that  stormy  January  night  of  i  759.  We 
close  our  eyes  and  see  the  mother,  weak 
and  thankful,  in  the  shadowy  recess,  the 
group  of  kindly  gossips  bustling  about 
her  and  the  new-comer,  and  the  proud 
father  receiving  the  congratulations  of  the 
gypsy  tramp,  who  predicted  : 


2  2  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  He  '11  hae  misfortunes  great  an'  sma', 
But  ay  a  heart  aboon  them  a', 
He  '11  be  a  credit  to  us  a', 

We  '11  a'  be  proud  o'  Robin." 

The  deal  dresser  filled  up,  as  now,  all 
the  back  of  the  room  not  occupied  by  win- 
dow and  bed-place.  In  the  middle  of  the 
floor  was  the  table  at  which,  we  are  told, 
the  father  sat  to  read  Shakespeare  to  his 
family  on  winter  nights,  and  about  which 
the  household  gathered  for  meals  and 
evening  prayers.  It  is  pushed  against 
the  dresser  to  leave  space  for  the  passage 
of  tourist  visitors.  This  oblong  product 
of  country  carpentry  is  scarred  all  over 
with  the  names  of  those  whose  signatures, 

"  Like  their  faces. 
Do  much  abound  in  public  places  " 

that  are  consecrated  ground  to  angels  and 
right-minded  men.  At  the  corner  of  the 
ingle  was  the  old  spinning-wheel,  now  to 
be  seen  in  the  other  room,  where  it  prob- 
ably stood,  still  and  silent,  on  the  birth- 
night.  Elbow-room  must  have  been  as 
rare  a  luxury   as  sofa  and  carpet  in  the 


"  Only  a  But  an'  a  Ben  "        23 

"  but "  (which  was  kitchen,  bedroom,  sit- 
ting-room, and  bedchamber  all  in  one), 
when  the  children's  stools,  the  table, 
wheel,  and  the  parents'  chairs  were  in 
place.  One  of  the  latter,  bound  over  and 
about  with  cords,  lest  it  should  be  sat 
upon,  backs  up  against  the  "  set-in  "  bed. 
One  rapid  sweep  of  fancy  collects  the 
household,  as  in  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night,"  a  faithful  portraiture  of  Burns's 
own  home-life.  We  group  the  elder 
bairns  and  the  "wee  things,"  the  "lisping 
infant  prattling  on  the  father's  knee,"  the 
busy  mother  who 

"  Wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel  's  new," 

"the  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman 
grown,"  not  forgetting  the  "  strappan 
youth,"  her  lover — and  wonder  unto  de- 
spair how  furniture  and  people  got  into 
the  room  ;  how  the  home  party  ate  their 
supper  of  "  halesome  parritch,"  milk,  oat- 
cake, and  cheese,  then  knelt  about  the 
"  saint,  the  father  and  the  husband,"  while 
he  prayed, 


24  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  Where  did  the  children  sleep  ? "  is  our 
natural  query. 

"  This  was  the  only  bedroom.  The  par- 
lor was  seldom  used  except  upon  grand 
occasions,  such  as  christenings,  marriages, 
funerals,  and  the  like." 

We  listen  and  disbelieve.  The  civil 
custodian  was  no  more  here  on  that  Janu- 
ary night  than  we  were.  We  insist  men- 
tally and  stubbornly  upon  transferring  the 
elder  bairns,  the  wee  toddlers,  and  lisping 
infant,  for  the  nonce,  to  the  "  ben,"  or 
parlor.  "  A  but  an'  a  ben  "  was  the  con- 
ventional thing  in  cottage  architecture  at 
that  date.  This  particular  "  ben  "  is  an  un- 
interesting room,  notwithstanding  our 
arbitrary  plenishings  of  cots  and  pallets 
for  the  "  hantle  "  of  juvenile  Burnses.  It 
is  separated  from  the  "  but "  by  a  small 
hall,  about  five  feet  square.  Into  this 
the  front  door,  set  in  the  exact  middle  of 
the  house,  opens.  It  is  double-leaved,  and 
a  wrought-iron  hook,  eighteen  inches  long, 
made  fast  to  the  wall,  when  hasped,  kept 
one  half  of  it  shut,  leaving  the  other  free 
for  the  coming  and  going  of  family  and 


"  Only  a  But  an'  a  Ben  "        25 

friends.  The  house  is  flush  with  the  vil- 
lage street,  and  was  formerly  secured 
against  intruders  by  a  latch,  above  which 
a  bit  of  wood  was  stuck  at  night  so  it  could 
not  be  lifted  from  without. 

Like  the  "but,"  the  "ben"  had  but  one 
window  at  the  date  of  the  overflow  of 
younglings  which  we  have  decided  was 
imperatively  necessary  on  that  stormy 
birthnight.  This  one  inlet  of  air  and  light 
was  in  the  streetward  wall,  and  had  six 
panes,  six  inches  long  by  four  wide,  in 
each  sash. 

Yet  the  room  was  airy  and  cheerful  by 
comparison  with  the  more  important 
"but."  The  practical,  humane  sister- 
housewife  cannot  but  hope  that  when 

**  November  chill  blew  loud  wi'  angry  sigh," 

the  "thrifty  wife  "  so  far  defied  the  Ayr- 
shire Grundy  as  to  take  her  needle,  shears, 
and  making-over  to  this  larger  room  to 
spare  her  eyesight. 

A  round  light-stand  that  belonged  to 
the  Burnses  is  here,  and  half  of  one  wall 


26  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

is  covered  by  an  old  sign-board,  defaced 
by  initial-cutting.  A  portrait  of  Burns, 
rudely  painted,  and  much  the  worse  for 
weather,  adorns  the  board,  which  hung  in 
front  of  the  cottage  after  it  passed  out  of 
the  elder  Burns's  hands  and  became  a 
public-house.  It  was  purchased  by  the 
trustees  of  the  Burns  Monument  several 
years  ago,  and  is  kept  in  excellent  repair. 
The  brown  thatch  of  the  roof  is  a  foot 
and  a  half  thick,  and  beautifully  laid  and 
trimmed. 

The  addition  of  two  other  rooms  for 
the  storage  of  relics  is  in  exact  keeping 
with  the  original  building.  Two  chairs 
from  the  Ayr  public-house,  lettered  "  Tam 
o'  Shanter"  and  "  Souter  Johnny,"  a  tod- 
dy-ladle used  by  Burns  in  Nance  Tinnock's 
house,  a  deal  "  leaf-table,"  and  a  brass 
candlestick,  once  his  property,  are  passed 
hastily  by  as  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  book 
of  his  autograph  letters  and  the  original 
manuscript  of  "Tam  o'  Shanter."  Burns 
wrote  a  strong,  legible  hand,  not  in  the 
least  like  the  sprawling  characters  of  the 
average    self-taught    man.     Two    of    the 


H    H 


'*  Only  a  But  an'  a  Ben  "        27 

best-known  lines  of  the  famous  poem  are 
usually  printed  and  quoted  thus  : 

"  Or,  like  the  snow-fall  on  the  river, 
One  moment  white,  then  gone  forever." 

An  unexpurgated  and  careful  Edin- 
burgh edition  has  them, — 

"  Or,  like  the  snow-falls  on  the  river, 
One  moment  white — then  melts  forever." 

The  peasant  poet  boldly  uses  "  like " 
as  a  synonym  for  "as" — a  common  pro- 
vincialism in  our  Southern  States  and  in 
some  parts  of  England  at  this  day  : 

"  Or,  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river. 
One  moment  white — then  melts  forever." 

The  compound  word  "  snow-falls  "  is  a 
modern  alteration  that  improves  neither 
figure  nor  syntax. 

"  Only  a  but  an'  a  ben  ! "  We  say  it 
musingly,  leaning  over  the  railing  on  the 
top  of  the  inharmonious  Grecian  temple 
erected  to  the  memory  of  the  ploughman 
genius. 

The  lovely  visible  pastoral  spread  below 
us,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  is  all 


28  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  the  Burns  country."  Thus  it  is  set 
down  in  guide-books  ;  thus  the  passionate 
pilgrim  from  the  Land  of  the  Sunset 
names  it  in  exulting  tenderness.  These 
are  Robert  Burns's  hills,  green  to  the 
brows,  and  dotted  with  trees.  The  low- 
lands, where  cattle  feed  and  men  are 
ploughing,  and  driving  home  loaded  wains 
to  the  rickyard,  include  the  fields  hal- 
lowed by  his  toil.  His  ploughshare  up- 
rooted the  daisy,  and  it  was  no  longer  a 
weed  ;  in  unearthing  a  field-mouse  it 
made  the  "wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous 
beastie "  pathetic  and  symbolic  for  all 
time.  The  smell  of  peat  in  the  sun-filled 
air  is  as  sweet  to  us  for  his  sake  as  the 
perfume  of  the  hardy  late  roses  growing 
about  the  base  of  his  monument ;  the  rip- 
ple of  the  Doon  filling  up  the  silences 
of  the  dreamy  day  is  set  to  the  music  of 
his  verse. 

His  spirit  does  not  haunt — it  possesses 
our  willing  souls  in  bonny,  bonny  Ayr- 
shire. 

Yet — only  "  a  but  an'  a  ben  !  " 


Ill 

"HER  GLOOMY  HONEYMOON" 


29 


Ill 


HER    GLOOMY    HONEYMOON" 


IN  the  great  Babylon  of  Hampton  Court 
Palace,  builded  by  Thomas  VVolsey — 
butcher-boy,  Cardinal,  Premier,  ruined  and 
disgraced  favourite — there  remains  but  one 
authentic  portrait  of  him.  That  one  is  a 
quarter-length  cabinet  picture  in  an  ill- 
lighted  closet,  called  by  his  name. 

Henry  the  Eighth  robbed  his  arrogant 
vizier  of  his  palace  and  altered  it  to  suit 
his  own  taste.  The  groined  ceiling  of 
"  Anne  Boleyn's  Gateway "  is  decorated 
with  true-lovers'  knots  binding  together 
the  initials  "  H  "  and  "  A."  The  magnifi- 
cent Great  Hall  was  begun  at  the  same 
time. 

"  By  dint  of  ye  men  workyng  in  theyr 
houre  tymes  and  drynking  tymes  for  the 
hastye  expedicion  of  ye  same,  and  ye  emp- 
31 


32  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

cion  of  tallow  candles  spent  by  ye  workmen 
in  ye  nyght-tymes,"  carvings,  and  illumi- 
nated panels  all  ablaze  with  gold-leaf  and 
carmine,  and  matchless  tapestries,  brought 
from  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  that 
even  now  glow  with  fadeless  colours,  were 
finished  before  Jane  Seymour's  death  at 
Hampton  Court.  Her  initials  are  inter- 
twined with  Henry's  among  the  ornaments 
of  the  ceilingr  and  in  mosaics  at  the  door 
of  the  chapel  in  which  he  afterward  married 
Katharine  Howard. 

The  large  picture  catalogued  as  "  Henry 
Vni.  and  his  Family,"  that  hangs  in  the 
Queen's  Audience-Chamber,  was  painted 
by  an  artist  of  the  Holbein  school.  The 
King  and  his  little  son,  who  became  Ed- 
ward VI.,  occupy  the  centre  of  the  picture. 
Jane  Seymour,  who  died  at  her  boy's  birth, 
nevertheless  appears  seated  at  Henry's  left 
hand.  Next  to  this  posthumous  portrait 
stands  the  Princess  Elizabeth.  Opposite 
to  her,  and  at  the  King's  right,  is  the 
Princess  Mary. 

We  look  vainly  among  the  hundreds  of 
portraits  in  the  immense  collection  of  the 


WOLSEY'S    HALL,    HAMPTON   COURT. 


Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon       33 

Royal  Palace  for  any  other  likeness  of 
Mary  Tudor,  first  Queen-regnant  of  Eng- 
land and  Ireland,  who  became,  in  the 
fulness  of  time,  the  most  sorrowful  and 
most  unpopular  sovereign  who  ever  sat 
upon  the  English  throne.  For  the  first 
eleven  years  of  her  life  she  was  the  pre- 
cocious and  petted  darling  of  parents  and 
people.  After  that,  her  story  is  made  up 
of  variations  of  tragedy.  Her  father  de- 
clared her  illegitimate  and  sought  her  life  ; 
her  idolised  mother  died,  begging,  with 
futile  tears,  for  a  last  glimpse  of  her  only 
child  ;  Anne  Boleyn's  flouts  and  insults  to 
her  worse  than  orphaned  step-daughter 
were  like  a  weight  about  the  step-mother's 
neck  when  she  came  to  the  scaffold  ;  the 
girl's  dearest  in  heart  and  next  of  kin  died 
by  the  hand  of  the  executioner  for  no 
crime  save  their  love  and  loyalty  to  her. 
Her  wild  and  lasting  grief  for  her  mother's 
death  undermined  her  health  hopelessly. 
She  never  knew  another  well  day.  Before 
she  came  into  the  kingdom  so  hardly  se- 
cured for  herself  and  her  adherents,  Mary 
Tudor  had  known  outrages  that  might  well 


34  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

convert  the  saint  she  seemed  to  those  who 
knew  her  as  Princess,  into  the  incarnate 
devil  she  is  held  to  have  been  by  the 
Protestant  world. 

But  to  our  portrait.  It  was  painted 
when  she  was  about  twenty-eight  years  of 
age,  and  more  than  pleasing  in  appearance. 
At  eighteen,  she  was  reckoned  a  beauty. 
At  thirty-eight,  the  Venetian  ambassador 
at  her  court  wrote  : 

"  Her  face  is  well-formed,  and  her  fea- 
tures prove  that  when  younger  she  was 
more  than  moderately  handsome.  She 
would  now  be  so,  saving  some  wrinkles, 
caused  more  by  sorrow  than  by  age." 

The  pictured  eyes  into  which  we  are 
now  looking  are  dark  and  lustrous ;  her 
complexion  is  pale,  but  pure.  One  writer 
says  it  was  "singularly  beautiful.  Until 
the  latest  years  of  her  heavily  shadowed 
life  her  blush  was  as  quick  and  vivid  as  a 
girl's." 

In  1554,  being  then  in  the  fortieth  year 
of  her  age,  "she  kept  her  gloomy  honey- 
moon at  Hampton  Court  Palace,"  records 
a  biographer.     The  Duke  of  Norfolk,  her 


Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon       35 

staunch  old  friend  and  ally,  "whom  the 
Queen  loved  entirely,"  died  when  she  had 
lieen  married  but  a  few  days.  The  Court 
went  into  mourning,  and  Mary,  we  may 
well  believe,  not  unwillingly,  withdrew  with 
her  young  husband,  Don  Philip  of  Spain, 
to  the  superb  abode  begun  by  Wolsey  and 
completed  by  her  father.  There  is  no 
hner  palace  in  all  Great  Britain.  When 
Mary,  whose  favourite  seat  it  was,  entered 
it  with  such  of  her  bridal  train  as  she  chose 
to  bring  with  her,  it  was  like  a  dream  of 
Eastern  magnificence. 

A  glance  from  the  picture  to  the  great 
windows  on  the  other  side  of  the  room 
reveals  gardens,  avenues,  and  terraces  that 
then  stretched  away  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach  in  every  direction,  except  where  they 
were  bounded  by  the  silvery  Thames. 
Mary  was  a  loving  and  a  skilful  horti- 
culturist, and  never  happier  than  when 
engaged  among  her  flowers  and  orchards. 
Music  was  a  passion  with  her  from  in- 
fancy, and  she  was  no  mean  performer 
upon  "  the  virginals  "  and  the  harpsichord. 
She  was  an  accomplished  scholar,  and  had 


36  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

in  her  girlhood  pleased  her  fourth  step- 
mother, Katharine  Parr,  by  translating  the 
Gospel  of  St.  John  from  the  Latin  into  Eng- 
lish. Books,  music,  and  such  treasures  of 
art  as  were  collected  under  no  other  roof  in 
all  her  kingdom,  were  here,  subject  to  her 
demand.  The  bridegroom,  whom  she  had 
"  received  right  lovingly"  upon  his  arrival 
in  England,  had  already  established  that 
fell  influence  over  her  which  was  to  prove 
alike  inexplicable  to  her  apologists  and  to 
her  accusers. 

A  portrait  of  Philip  of  Spain  in  this  same 
Hampton  Court  gallery  partially  justifies 
the  infatuation  of  the  bride,  who  was  eleven 
years  his  senior.  It  shows  us  a  martial  fig- 
ure, a  commanding  presence,  and  a  noble, 
open  countenance.  If  it  were  indeed  taken 
for  him,  it  was  egregiously  flattered.  Con- 
temporaries and  other  portraits  concur  in 
asserting  that  he  was  forbidding  in  face 
and  churlish  in  manner.  "  His  complex- 
ion was  cane-coloured,  his  hair  sandy  and 
scanty,  his  eyes  small,  blue,  and  weak,  with 
a  gloomy  expression  of  countenance," — 
we  hear  from  one.     From  another  that  he 


Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon       Z7 

was  "  a  man  of  mean  presence  and  carroty 
complexion."  The  English  people  had 
dreaded  his  alliance  with  their  Queen  with 
aversion  that  seems  to  us  like  a  premoni- 
tion of  the  woes  it  would  bring  upon  them. 
Instead  of  seeking  to  conciliate  them,  as 
Mary  implored  him  to  do,  he  ran  counter 
to  their  prejudices  from  the  outset.  While 
they  sympathised  with  the  Queen  in  her 
grief  for  her  friend's  death,  they  divined 
shrewdly  that  her  rigid  retirement  was 
Philip's  work,  not  hers,  and  were  highly 
incensed  thereat. 

"  Since  the  Spanish  wedlock,  Hampton 
Court  gates  that  used  to  be  open  all  day 
long  are  closed,  and  every  man  must  give 
an  account  of  his  errand  before  entering," 
is  a  complaint  made  during  the  gloomy 
honeymoon. 

Curiously  enough,  the  only  glimpse  we 
have  at  what  went  on  within  the  locked 
gates,  is  in  the  shape  of  a  fast-day  bill-of- 
fare,  in  which  salt  fish,  fresh  sturgeon 
caught  in  the  Thames,  crabs,  and  eels,  are 
succeeded  by  apples,  oatmeal,  and  cream, 
and  these  by  cheese,  wafers,  and  fruit  as  a 


38  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

dessert.  One  might  fancy  that  bride  and 
groom  were  preparing  themselves  by  fast- 
ing and  prayer  for  the  crusade  of  blood 
and  fire  inaugurated  by  Spanish  rule.  The 
stipulation  in  the  marriage  contract  that 
Philip  should  "  aid  the  Queen  in  govern- 
ing her  kingdoms,"  had  been  followed  up 
by  instructions  to  her  privy  councillor,  writ- 
ten by  her  own  hand,  to  "  tell  the  King  the 
whole  state  of  the  realm,  and  to  obey  his 
commandment  in  all  things." 

Behind,  and  at  the  right  of  the  gentle- 
faced  Princess  in  the  picture  before  us,  is 
the  uncouth  figure  of  "Jane  the  Fool," 
who  had  been  attached  to  Mary's  person 
and  followed  her  journeyings  for  years,  as 
privileged  jester  and  chamberwoman.  Jane 
married  a  servant  in  the  household  of  the 
Princess  Elizabeth  before  Mary's  corona- 
tion and  marriage.  Had  she  been  in  at- 
tendance during  the  Hampton  Court  se- 
clusion, she  might  have  told  her  royal 
mistress  some  stinging  and  salutary  truths  ; 
even  proposed,  after  the  manner  of  kings' 
jesters,  to  exchange  titles  with  her. 

With  all  the  acres  of  tapestries  and  paint- 


Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon       39 

ings  within-doors,  and  the  enchanting  miles 
of  woods  and  water  and  pleasure-grounds 
without,  in  which  he  might  roam  unseen 
and  undisturbed,  Philip  was  desperately 
ennuyd  before  the  gloomy  honeymoon  was 
over.  Oh  the  other  hand,  his  mature  bride, 
so  long  and  so  sadly  lonely  in  heart,  be- 
came the  more  madly  enamoured  of  the 
only  being  she  had  had  the  right  to  claim 
as  her  own  since  her  mother  died. 

The  best  authorities  upon  historical 
dates  now  agree  that  the  reconciliation  of 
the  estranged  sisters,  Mary  and  Elizabeth, 
took  place  in  the  second  month  of  Mary's 
nominal  mournino;  for  Norfolk  and  real  en- 
joyment  of  the  society  of  her  ungracious 
husband.  The  meeting  was  in  Mary's 
bedchamber,  A  stormy  dialogue  con- 
cluded with  a  kiss  and  the  gift  from  the 
Queen  of  a  costly  ring.  Gossiping  tradi- 
tion will  have  it  that  Philip  wrought  upon 
his  wife  to  recall  her  sister,  and  that  he 
was  concealed,  with  Mary's  knowledge, 
behind  the  arras  during  the  interview,  that 
she  might  be  strictly  obedient  to  his  in- 
structions. 


40  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

We  find  the  Queen  again  at  Hampton 
Court  in  April,  1555,  when  "the  King's 
Grace  " — he  was  that  to  the  terrified  na- 
tion from  the  hour  he  emerged  from  the 
gloomy  seclusion  of  his  honeymoon — *'  re- 
moved the  Queen  to  Hampton  Court  to 
keep  Easter  and  to  take  her  chamber 
there."  The  phrase  had  reference  to  the 
Court  etiquette  that  required  the  sov- 
ereign to  keep  her  room  for  a  month  be- 
fore the  birth  of  a  child. 

Tennyson  puts  a  Magnificat  into  Mary's 
mouth  with  the  beginning  of  the  illusive 
hope  to  which  she  was  to  cling  until  her 
forlorn  case  became  the  laughing-stock  of 
the  nations. 

"  O  Philip,  husband  !  now  thy  love  to  mine 

Will  cling  more  close,  and  these  bleak  manners 

thaw, 
That  make  me  shamed  and  tongue-tied   in  my 

love  ! — " 

is  an  apostrophe  that  is  hardly  a  poetical 
licence. 

Her  lonof  silence  and  absence  from 
public  life  were  at  length  explained  by  a 


Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon      41 

despatch  to  the  French  King  from  a  plain- 
spoken  ambassador : 

"  The  Queen's  state  is  by  no  means  of 
the  hopeful  kind  generally  supposed,  but 
rather  some  woful  malady,  for  she  sits 
whole  days  on  the  ground,  crouched  to- 
gether, with  her  knees  higher  than  her 
head." 

Fox  corroborates  this  in  his  history  of 
the  martyrs  of  this  blood-soaked  reign : 

"  Sometimes  she  laid  weeks  without 
speaking,  as  one  dead,  and  more  than 
once  the  rumour  went  that  she  had  died." 

Another  pitying  chronicler  alludes  to 
her  as  "the  half-dead  Queen,"  while  de- 
picting the  horrible  cruelties  perpetrated 
by  Philip  and  his  lieutenant,  Gardiner,  be- 
fore the  breath  at  last  forsook  her  dropsi- 
cal body. 

I"  1557'  Philip  returned  from  a  long 
visit  to  Spain  to  fan  the  sinking  flames  of 
persecution  and  to  drag  the  invalid  from  her 
bed  into  the  light  as  evidence  that  he  had 
her  warrant  for  all  that  he  did.  His  object 
gained,  he  sailed  again  for  his  native  land, 
leavinor  her  to  bear  the  onus  of  his  deeds. 


42  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

It  was  after  this  second  departure  that, 
convinced  that  he  had  deserted  her,  the 
tormented  creature,  old  before  her  time, 
despised  as  well  as  abandoned,  in  a  par- 
oxysm of  despair,  cut  his  portrait  from 
the  frame  and  trampled  it  under  her  feet. 

She  was  brought  upon  a  litter  to  Hamp- 
ton Court — "  the  which  she  ever  loved 
the  most  of  all  her  abodes  " — in  Septem- 
ber, 1558,  "but  grew  the  worse,  rather 
than  better,"  as  was  to  be  expected, — 
haunted  as  palace  and  gardens  must  have 
been  by  ghosts  from  the  irrevocable  Past. 

She  died  in  St.  James's  Palace,  Novem- 
ber 17th  of  the  same  year.  "  It  was  the 
custom  for  the  body  of  an  English  sov- 
ereign to  be  buried  in  royal  array,  but 
Mary  had  earnestly  entreated  that  no 
semblance  of  the  crown  which  had  pressed 
so  heavily  on  her  brow  in  life  might  cum- 
ber her  corpse  in  death.  She  requested 
that  she  might  be  interred  as  a  poor 
religieiiser  '■ 

It  is  hard  to  breathe  in  all  the  glory  and 
spaciousness  of  the  state  rooms,  while  we 
review  the   dreary,    dreary  tale.     At   the 


Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon       43 

upper  end  of  the  Great  Hall,  where  Henry 
VI H.  danced  with  Jane  Seymour  and 
Katharine  Howard,  and  where  Katharine 
Parr  was  proclaimed  Queen,  is  a  dais  or 
platform,  upon  which  Shakespeare  and 
his  company  played  in  Elizabeth's  time. 
Other  and  less  august  shades  people  it  for 
us  as  we  stroll  pensively  from  one  tapes- 
tried wall  to  the  other,  and  picture  to  our- 
selves how  the  Hall  must  look  when 
closed  for  the  night  and  but  faintly  illu- 
minated by  the  moonbeams  struggling 
through  the  stained  glass  of  the  tall  win- 
dows. An  archway  opening  from  the 
great  staircase  to  the  Queen's  apartments, 
in  what  a  historian  calls  "  the  mysterious 
angle  of  Hampton  Court,"  was  built  up 
two  centuries  and  more  ago,  for  no  other 
reason,  said  superstitious  gossips,  than  to 
impede  the  wanderings  of  Jane  Seymour, 
who  used  to  roam  the  galleries  and  flit  up 
and  down  the  staircase,  a  lighted  candle 
in  her  hand.  We  have  been  told,  to-day, 
in  our  round  of  the  palace,  that  she  has 
been  seen  here  within  a  dozen  years. 
Katharine  Howard,  when  arrested  in  her 


44  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

own  apartments  at  Hampton  Court,  and 
told  that  she  was  to  be  taken  to  the  Tower, 
ran  shrieking  through  the  corridors,  hair 
dishevelled  and  dress  disordered,  to  the 
closed  door  of  the  chapel,  where  she  knew 
Henry  was  then  praying,  and  beat  upon 
the  panels  with  her  hands,  calling  wildly 
upon  her  husband's  name.  She  was  torn 
away,  and  borne  to  her  death, — "  albeit 
she  struggled  violently,  and  her  screams 
were  heard  by  everyone  in  the  chapel." 
Since  which  time  she  has  haunted  the 
corridor — a  distraught  phantom  with 
streaming  hair,  who  cries  frantically  to 
her  royal  lord  for  pardon  and  help.  The 
nurse  of  Edward  VI.  turns  an  invisible 
spinning-wheel  and  mutters  to  herself  in 
the  room  once  occupied  by  her. 

If  foul  wrongs  done  to  a  woman  while 
she  lived,  and  merciless  judgment  meted 
out  to  her  when  dead,  could  recall  the  de- 
parted. Great  Hall  and  bedchamber  and 
closet  would  be  revisited  daily  and  nightly 
by  the  sad  wraith  of  her  whose  brief  reign 
is  like  the  stamp  of  a  bloody  hand  upon 
the  page  of  English  history  bearing  date 


Her  Gloomy  Honeymoon      45 

of  1 553-1 558.  Calm  reason  may  not 
plead  for  Mary  Tudor,  but  our  hearts  are 
sore  with  pity  as  we  make  hers  the  central 
figure  upon  our  stage  ;  first,  as  the  sweet- 
faced  translator  of  the  Evangel  of  Love, 
petite  in  form,  exquisite  in  complexion, 
"  both  wise  and  sage,  and  beautiful  in 
favour "  ;  then,  the  slighted  wife,  bereft 
alike  of  the  dream  of  motherhood  and  a 
husband's  love, — finally,  broken  in  spirit 
and  in  health,  "  hated  by  her  husband  as 
hated  by  her  people  "  ;  grovelling,  like  a 
dying  animal,  upon  the  ground  for  days 
together,  dumbly  awaiting  welcome  death 
in  the  lordly  rooms  where  she  had  spent 
her  prophetic  honeymoon. 


IV 

**AN    EATING-HOUSE    FOR 
GOODLY  FARE" 


47 


IV 

"AN  EATING-HOUSE  FOR 
GOODLY  FARE" 

JUST  as  it  was  two  hundred  years 
ago,  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  It  was  old  in  1725.  A  handbook  of 
London  pubHshed  at  that  date  catalogues 
it  as  Ye  Okie  Cheshire  Cheese  Taver7i,  7iear 
ye  Flete  Prison,  an  Eating-House  for  goodly 
fare.  You  see  it  now  just  as  it  was  then. 
That  is  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson's  corner  over 
there.  Goldsmith  sat  at  his  left  hand. 
Goldsmith's  lodgings  were  just  across  the 
street.  He  wrote  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield 
in  them.  I  '11  show  you  his  grave  in  the 
Temple  Churchyard,  when  we  go  out. 
That  is,  unless  I  can  persuade  you  to  stay 
here  to  luncheon.  It  will  be  something  to 
remember,  I  assure  you." 

The  intonation  is  persuasive  and  a  little 

49 


50  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

anxious.  The  speaker  casts  a  deprecating 
smile  at  the  trio  of  fashionably  attired 
women  he  is  escorting.  The  one  directly 
addressed  gathers  up  her  black  satin  skirt 
from  the  sawdusty  floor,  includes  the  ap- 
pointments and  inmates  of  the  room  in 
one  sweeping,  shuddering  glance,  and  says 
hastily, — "  O  7io  !  thank  you  ever  so  much, 
but   I  really  could  n't  tJmik  of  it ! " 

Nobody,  excepting  ourselves,  looks  at 
the  party  that  has  the  effect  of  taking  up 
all  the  spare  room  in  the  place,  and  mak- 
ing the  ceiling  lower,  the  wainscoted  walls 
more  dingy,  in  a  way  peculiar  to  over- 
dressed Americans.  The  cicerone  is  their 
countryman,  but  of  a  different  stamp. 
There  is  intellio^ent  reo^ret  in  his  backward 
glance  as  he  follows  the  disdainful  bevy 
in  their  retreat.  We  get  a  glimpse  of 
them  through  a  window,  when  they  emerge 
from  the  shabby  doorway.  They  are  still 
gathering  their  skirts  about  them,  and  pick 
their  way  gingerly  upon  their  boot-tips 
over  the  wet  stones  of  Wine  Court. 

So  far  as  we  can  see,  the  flutter  and 
bustle  produced  by  their  hurried  round  of 


1?>^'.- '^  '1 


ENTRANCE  TO    THE    "  OLD   CHESHIRE   CHEESE"    IN   WINE    OFFICE   COURT, 
f'rom  an  Original  Drawing  by  Herbert  Railton. 


An  Eating-House  51 

inspection  is  confined  to  ourselves,  al- 
though every  word  uttered  was  audible 
from  wall  to  wall.  The  ruffled  stillness 
subsides  with  their  departure,  as  stagnant 
waters  regain  placidity  after  the  plashing 
of  a  stone.  We  exchange  congratulatory 
smiles  and  snuggle  down  contentedly  in 
our  nook  across  the  aisle  from  the  John- 
sonian corner.  Then,  the  encompassing 
atmosphere  begins  to  take  effect.  We 
grow  dreamily  reminiscent,  patiently  an- 
ticipative. 

This  expedition  to  the  one  coffee- 
house in  London  that  has  withstood  the 
surge  of  "modern  improvements"  direct- 
ed against  building  and  management  for 
more  than  two  hundred  years,  is  the 
"larkiest"  thing  we  have  done  in  our 
wanderings.  Before  coming,  it  looked  to 
us  like  a  bit  of  Bohemian  adventure  verg- 
ing upon  the  poisonous  sweetness  of  stolen 
waters,  the  touch  of  iniquity  which,  the 
witty  Frenchwoman  said,  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  make  her  vanilla  ice  perfectly 
delicious.  We  foresaw  a  fair  measure  of 
novel    excitement,    with    a   certain    back- 


52  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

ground  of  discomfort.  As  the  spirit  of 
the  place  and  the  times  gains  possession 
of  us,  the  "  lark  "  becomes  more  than  deco- 
rous. It  is  dignified,  and  a  duty  we  owe 
to  the  manes  of  the  greater  than  ourselves 
who  resorted  hither  in  the  dim  and  rever- 
end Past. 

The  coffee-house  —  or  chop-house  —  is 
smaller  than  we  expected  to  find  it.  There 
is  a  bar  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall,  with 
a  sustained  reputation  of  its  very  own, 
and  the  supper-rooms  above-stairs  could 
tell  gay  tales  of  dead-and-gone  revelries, 
if  the  dumb  walls  were  phonographic. 
This,  the  chief  resort  of  customers  that 
have  given  "  The  Cheshire  Cheese  "  world- 
wide renown,  is  not  more  than  twenty  feet 
long  and  perhaps  fifteen  feet  in  width. 
There  are  ten  tables,  each  with  seats  for 
six  upon  hard  benches  that  are  made  fast 
to  the  floor.  Breast-high  partitions  be- 
tween the  tables  make  compartments  like 
the  square  family  pews  seen  in  old  churches. 
Massive  oaken  beams,  embrowned  by 
smoke  and  centuries,  cross  the  ceiling. 
One  compartment  is  further  secluded  by 


An  Eating-House  53 

a  dingy  curtain,  hung  from  a  rod  set  a 
foot  or  more  above  the  top  of  the  board 
partition,  and  is  known  as  "the  cosey 
corner." 

Dr.  Johnson's  nook  has  wall-benches 
on  two  sides  ;  a  third  side  is  made  by  the 
projecting  chimney,  the  table  filling  the 
fourth  that  faces  the  room.  Johnson's 
portrait  hangs  above  his  bench.  A  brass 
plate  is  let  into  the  wall,  testifying  that 
this  was  "  the  favourite  seat  of  Dr.  Sam- 
uel Johnson,  Born  September  18,  lyog. 
Died  December  ij,  ij8^.''  Beneath  a 
pompous,  eulogistic  sentence  we  read  one 
more  pithy  and  interesting  : 

"  No,  sir  !  there  is  nothing  which  has 
yet  been  contrived  by  man,  by  which  so 
much  happiness  has  been  produced,  as  by 
a  good  tavern." — Johnson. 

The  round  spots  of  darker  brown  upon 
the  wainscot  were  made,  it  is  said,  by 
the  loll  of  Johnson's  greasy  wig  and  the 
restless  rubbing  of  Goldsmith's  head,  as 
they  hobnobbed  daily  over  roast,  steak, 
and  home-brewed  ale.  The  sawdust  on 
the  floor  is  an  indifferent   substitute  for 


54  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

the  sand  that  formerly  coated  and  pro- 
tected it.  Midway  between  door  and 
chimney  is  an  iron  umbrella-rack,  the  box- 
bottom  of  which  is  filled  with  sawdust. 
It  has  especial  fascination  for  us,  some- 
how. Johnson's  umbrella,  that  must  have 
been  big  and  baggy,  and  Goldsmith's, 
that,  most  likely,  had  a  broken  rib  and  a 
slit  or  two  (if  he  owned  one  at  all),  leaned 
against  that  frame  times  without  number. 
We  easily  conjure  up  the  bear-like  roll 
and  ponderous  tread  of  the  great  lexi- 
cographer up  the  aisle,  until  he  flings 
himself  upon  the  creaking  bench,  poor 
Oliver  following  with  his  dog-trot  and  his 
bright,  wistful  eyes.  We  hope  and  be- 
lieve that,  when  he  had  not  what  "  Young 
America"  calls  "the  price  of  a  dinner" 
in  his  pocket,  he  dined  at  Bruin's  ex- 
pense. 

Charles  II.  consistently  defied  the  pro- 
prieties and  amused  his  royal  self  by 
bringing  Nell  Gwynne  here  to  sup  one 
night  after  the  play.  Discarding  as  apoc- 
ryphal the  tale  that  Shakespeare  used  to 
take  his  chop  and  cup  of  sack  at  one  of 


An  Eating-House  55 

these  tables  while  his  plays  were  "on"  at 
the  Blackfriars  Theatre,  we  yet  remind 
one  another,  whisperingly,  that  Robert 
Herrick  wrote  to  Ben  Jonson  of 

"  these  lyric  feasts 
Made  at  The  Sun, 
The  Cheese,  the  Triple  Tun  "  ; 

that  "the  marvellous  Boy,"  Chatterton, 
loafed  into  the  classic  precincts  to  warm 
his  famishing  body,  and  to  bask  his 
hungrier  soul  and  heart  in  the  blaze  of 
the  congregated  wits.  Alexander  Pope, 
Alfred  Tennyson,  David  Garrick,  John 
Leech,  Thomas  Hood,  Charles  Dickens, 
Edmund  Burke,  Thackeray,  Voltaire, 
Christopher  North,  Charles  Matthews, 
Douglas  Jerrold,  John  Forster,  Nathan- 
iel Hawthorne,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, — 
what  care  we  how  we  violate  synchro- 
nisms in  our  breathless  enumeration  of 
a  few  of  the  shining  host  that  have  sat 
upon  these  hard  benches,  eaten  from 
these  clumsy  tables,  and  made  the  smoke- 
dyed  rafters  ring  with  debate  and  laugh- 
ter ?      Epigrams   were    born    in    the   old 


56  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

eating-house  as  butterflies  are  evolved 
from  cocoons  by  sunshine  and  summer 
airs.  A  catalogue  of  the  noted  bons  viots 
here  uttered  for  the  first  time  would  fill  a 
fair-sized  volume. 

We  have  abundant  leisure  for  memory 
and  for  thought,  for,  mistaking  the  hour 
at  which  The  Pudding,  the  event  of  the 
day,  would  be  served,  we  have  forty-five 
minutes  upon  our  hands.  The  waiter 
who  spreads  our  white  cloth  and  sets  in 
array  the  willow-pattern  plates,  the  cas- 
ter, salt-cellars,  cutlery,  and  pewter  tank- 
ards, informs  us  in  the  husky  sub-tone  that 
befits  hour  and  scene,  that  "  It  will  not  be 
down  until  'arf-parst  one,  to  the  minnit." 

"The  kitchen  is  upstairs,  then  ?" 

"As  it  halways  'as  been,  sir.  And  it 
'as  been  done  to  a  turn  at  'arf-past  one 
o'clock  to  the  minnit  for  a  'undred  years 
and  more." 

As  the  minutes  pass,  the  room  fills. 
No  questions  are  asked  ;  no  orders  are 
given.  For  a  while,  the  hum  of  voices 
from  the  bar  trickles  into  the  silence. 
This  is  hushed  presently,  and  the  five  or 


'■■^  A^iigS^ 


STAIRCASE    IN       OLD   CHESHIRE  CHEESE." 
From  an  Original  Drawing  by  Herbert  Railton. 


An  Eating-House  57 

six  men  who  have  loitered  there  enter 
with  the  careful  step  of  church-comers  to 
take  the  few  remaining  vacant  seats. 
Watches  are  furtively  consulted  when  the 
minutes  have  dwindled  into  seconds.  Still 
there  is  no  exhibition  of  restlessness.  Ver- 
ily, these  English  know  how  to  wait  for 
what  they  are  sure  of  getting.  In  the  hun- 
dred-years-and-more  they  have  learned  that 
IT  is  not  to  be  hurried. 

Four  waiters  appear,  laden  with  im- 
mense piles  of  hot  plates  of  generous 
amplitude,  and  deposit  them  upon  a  table 
near  the  door.  Two  respectable  and 
ruddy  Britons  in  the  box  adjoining  ours 
take  off  the  hats  they  had  not  thought  it 
worth  while  to  remove  out  of  respect  to 
their  fellow-guests.  Upon  the  heels  of 
the  plate-bearers  march  two  men  with  four 
covered  tureens  of  gravy.  These  flank 
the  hot  plates,  leaving  the  upper  end  of 
the  board  clear.  Then,  a  man  walks  in 
quietly  and  takes  his  stand  before  the 
vacant  space.  From  his  dress-coat  he 
might  be  a  Chief  Butler.  From  his  hand- 
some face,  clean-shaven    but   for  a   mus- 


58  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

tache,  he  might  be  an  educated  gentle- 
man. His  deportment  is  that  of  a  High 
Priest,  and  the  table  is  his  altar.  An 
attendant  hands  him  a  glittering  knife  and 
a  fork. 

Our  fingers  and  toes  tingle ;  electric 
shivers  play  up  and  down  our  spines  in 
the  interval  of  perhaps  thirty  seconds  that 
elapses  before  there  looms  up  in  the  door- 
way a  big  waiter,  bearing  aloft  upon  a 
pair  of  muscular  arms — 

THE    PUDDING. 

He  moves  with  judicious  circumspec- 
tion. We  recall,  with  a  pang  as  swift 
and  keen  as  a  jumping  toothache,  that 
once — a  generation  or  so  ago — a  hapless 
predecessor  of  the  Hercules  tripped  upon 
the  threshold  in  the  supreme  moment  of 
the  Occasion,  and  let  the  Pudding  fall. 

It  is  safe  to-day,  albeit  the  table  actually 
groans  as  it  is  set  down.  The  gleaming 
carver  is  raised — not  with  a  flourish,  as  it 
might  be  in  the  hands  of  a  meaner  artist 
— and  sinks  into  the  full  bosom,  swelling 
above  the  rim  of  the  mammoth  basin.  Slow 


An  Eating-House  59 

clouds  of  incense  rise  and  soon  pervade 
the  remotest  corners.  The  phlegmatic 
Britons  about  us  do  not  turn  a  hair.  Yet 
their  mouths  must  be  watering-  behind 
their  clenched  teeth.  Distribution,  like 
carving,  is  regulated  by  immutable  rules. 
Each  expectant  must  take  his  turn. 
Every  plate  is  heaped,  yet  the  only  ac- 
companiment of  the  Pudding  is  great 
potatoes,  smoking  hot,  that  crumble  into 
meal  at  a  touch. 

If  there  can  be  two  supreme  moments 
in  the  gastronomic  Function  at  which  we 
are  assisting,  the  second  is  that  in  which 
we  taste,  for  the  first  time,  the  Dish,  the 
fame  of  which  has  followed  the  British 
drum-beat  around  the  world. 

It  signifies  next  to  nothing  to  say  that 
the  crust,  three  inches  thick,  is  as  light  as 
a  sponge  and  as  tender  as  the  heart  of  a 
newly  made  widower ;  that  beneath  this 
crust — embalmed  in,  and  informed  by,  a 
brown  gravy  of  ineffable  and  indescribable 
spiciness  and  savouriness,  and  as  rich  and 
smooth  as  Alderney  cream — are  cubes  of 
juicy    beefsteak    and   minute   morsels    of 


6o  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

marrow,  larks,  mushrooms,  kidneys,  and 
oysters,  each,  by  some  miracle  of  culinary 
genius,  retaining  its  distinctive  flavour,  yet 
entering  into  and  facilitating  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  harmonious  Whole. 

Having  satisfied  ourselves  as  to  these 
particulars  by  critical  analysis,  after  the 
ecstasy  of  fruition  is  somewhat  dulled  by 
indulgence,  we  are  as  far  as  ever  from 
grasping  the  mystery  of  proportion  and 
concoction. 

Custom,  audited  by  common  sense, 
ordains  that  the  pudding  be  washed 
down  by  "  a  pint  of  bitter."  Which,  being 
interpreted,  is  the  mildest  and  mellowest 
of  "  brown  October  ale."  It  has  consorted 
with  the  savoury  Wonder  for  so  long  that 
divorce  would  be  an  outrage. 

"Stewed  Cheshire"  is  the  one  and  only 
other  course  prescribed  by  tradition  and 
appetite  when  the  second — or,  mayhap, 
the  third — help  of  pudding  has  been  de- 
clined— or,  what  is  more  likely,  eaten. 
"  Stewed  Cheshire  "  is  a  kind  of  glorified 
Welsh  rarebit,  served  in  the  square,  shal- 
low tins  in  which  it  is  cooked,  and  gar- 


An  Eating-IIouse  6i 

nished  with  sippets  of  delicately  coloured 
toast. 

On  the  way  out,  we  halt  at  the  altar. 
The  still  steaming  basin  is  three-quarters 
empty.  In  case  some  abnormally  capacious 
customer  should  accept  a  fourth  portion, 
the  High  Priest  still  holds  the  knife,  but 
lightly,  and  resting,  as  it  were,  upon  his 
arms.  Rashly,  being  ignorant  of  his  real 
rank,  we  accost  him  civilly,  extol  the  Pud- 
ding, and  inquire  further  into  the  antece- 
dents thereof.  He  is  courteous,  and,  for 
a  High  Priest,  communicative. 

The  basin,  or  bowl,  in  which  the  pudding 
is  cooked,  stands  eighteen  inches  high, 
and  is  twenty  inches  in  diameter  at  the 
brim.  It  holds  one  hundred  pounds  of 
mixture,  including  the  crust,  and  is  boiled 
twenty  hours.  The  recipe  is  a  state  se- 
cret, and  the  landlord  keeps  the  formula 
in  his  safe  when  not  using  it.  The  Pud- 
ding is  compounded  in  a  locked  room, 
then  committed  for  boiling  to  a  confiden- 
tial cook. 

"  The  Cheese,"  as  the  ancient  hostelry 
is  familiarly  termed  by  affectionate  habit- 


62  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

u^s,  has  been  in  the  Moore  family  for 
several  generations,  descending,  like  a 
dukedom,  from  father  to  son.  This  we 
had  heard  prior  to  our  visit.  Not  until 
we  were  quitting  the  storied  spot  did  we 
discover  that  the  suave  High  Functionary 
with  whom  we  had  been  talkinof  was  Mr. 
Charles  Moore,  the  present  proprietor. 
He  is  a  Churchwarden  and  a  Common 
Councilman,  with  prospects  of  the  Lord 
Mayoralty,  should  he  care  to  have  the 
office,  a  man  of  rare  intelligence  and 
culture. 

The  venerable  eating-house  has  been  a 
mine  of  wealth  to  his  canny  forbears  and 
to  himself.  In  nothing  have  they  proved 
themselves  more  canny  than  in  resisting 
what  their  revered  Johnson  anathematised 
as  "  the  fury  of  innovation  "  that  has  trans- 
formed other  chop-houses,  The  Mitre,  The 
Dog,  The  Tun,  and  The  Cock, — "  most  an- 
cient of  Taverns," — into  nineteenth-cen- 
tury restaurants,  bereft  of  quaintness  and 
tradition  by  new  methods  and  new  men, 
and  has  substituted  cheap  replicas  for  a 
Unique. 


V 
NO.  24  CHEYNE  ROW 


63 


V 


NO.  24  CHEYNE  ROW 

WE  have  asked  to  see  the  kitchen, 
first  of  all. 

For  the  thought  of  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle, 
more  than  the  fame  of  her  husband,  has 
brought  us  to  No.  24 — formerly  No.  5 — 
Cheyne  Row  {Anglicd,  "  Chain-ie  "). 

The  kitchen  is  in  what  the  English  call 
"  a  sunken  basement,"  with  two  half-win- 
dows opening  across  an  area  upon  the 
street.  A  heavy  deal  table  is  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor.  The  dresser  is  the  same 
in  which  Jane  Welsh  arranged  her  crock- 
ery with  the  help  of  Bessy  Barnet,  her  one 
maid-servant,  in  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

1834. 

Bessy  Barnet  washed  dishes  in  the  an- 
cient sink  in  the  corner  by  the  pump. 
Jane  was  sharp  with  a  kitchen-maid,  thirty 

05 


66  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

years  later,  for  letting  the  pump-well  go 
"  irrecoverably  dry,"  though  how  the  ca- 
tastrophe could  have  been  averted  is  an 
English  enigma  to  us.  The  notable 
housekeeper  must  have  had  unrecorded 
battles  with  dough  and  circumstance  over 
the  ugly  table  and  the  sulky-looking  sink 
in  the  days  when  she  "  got  up  at  half-past 
seven  to  prepare  the  coffee  and  bacon-ham 
for  breakfast,"  after  which  meal  she  swept 
the  parlour  and  blackened  the  grate  before 
making  her  own  bed.  The  kitchen — she 
named  it  "  an  inferno  " — could  never  have 
been  cheerful,  even  on  bright  days.  In 
foggy  weather  the  inmates  must  have 
been  obliged  to  work  by  lamplight. 

The  vision  of  the  trig  figure  stepping 
briskly  from  table  to  range  and  dresser  is 
suddenly  struck  from  the  imagination  by 
something  the  custodian  is  saying  : 

"  He  used  to  smoke  in  the  kitchen  every 
night.  His  chair  stood  here" — designating 
a  spot  at  the  right  of  the  hearth.  "  Ten- 
nyson was  often  here  and  smoked  with 
him.  He  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fire.     You   may  have  heard  of  the  time 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  67 

when  they  smoked  for  two  hours  one  night 
and  neither  of  them  spoke  a  word.  When 
Tennyson  got  up  to  go  home,  Carlyle  said, 
— '  Coom  again,  soon,  Alfred.  We  've  had 
an  awfully  graund  evening  together.' " 

"  Would  n't  Mrs.  Carlyle  allow  them  to 
smoke  upstairs  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  But  Carlyle 
liked  to  sit  over  the  kitchen  fire  with  his 
pipe.  He  said  he  felt  more  at  home  here 
than  anywhere  else." 

As  was  but  natural  in  the  son  of  a  Scot- 
tish peasant. 

The  picture  of  the  dainty  mistress  of 
the  home — a  lady  born  and  bred,  who 
married  the  eccentric  plebeian  against 
the  advice  of  her  friends,  and,  believing 
in  him,  "worked  like  a  servant,  bore 
poverty  and  suffering  and  put  up  with 
his  humours,  which  were  extremely  trying  " 
— comes  to  the  front  again  with  this  reply. 
We  have  our  doubts  and  our  beliefs, 
based  upon  what  we  know  of  her  house- 
wifery and  her  husband's  habits. 

"In  about  a  week,  it  seems  to  me,  all 
was  swept  and  garnished,  fairly  habitable. 


68  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

and  continued  incessantly  to  get  itself 
polished,  civilised  and  beautiful  to  a 
degree  that  surprised  me,"  wrote  Carlyle 
of  this  epoch.  He  was  effusively  just  to 
her — when  she  had  passed  beyond  the 
reach  of  human  praise  or  blame. 

Doubt  has  hardened  into  belief  by  the 
time  we  mount  the  narrow  kitchen  stairs 
to  what  was,  for  twenty  years,  the  Car- 
lyles'  "  parlour."  Here  they  sat  and 
talked,  and  quarrelled,  and  made  up,  and 
lived  what  part  of  their  lives  was  com- 
mon to  the  two.  Mrs.  Carlyle  called  it, 
in  rural  phrase,  her  "  best  room."  Fold- 
ing-doors connect  it  with  the  smaller 
room  in  which  they  took  their  meals. 

"The  little  oval  clock"  (now  a  fixture 
on  the  wall  above  the  staircase  leading 
to  the  upper  floor)  "  is  on  his  bracket 
in  the  back-room,  with  the  dining-room 
oval  table,"  Carlyle  writes  to  his  brother. 
**  It  is  here  we  sit  in  dewy  morning  sun- 
shine, and  breakfast  on  hot  coffee  and 
the  best  of  bread-and-butter." 

Back  of  the  dining-room  is  "a  china- 
room,  or   pantry,   or  I   know    not  what," 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  69 

says  another  letter — "all  shelved  and  fit 
to  hold  crockery  for  the  whole  street." 

Such  passages  as  these  had  prepared 
us  to  look  for  something  semi-palatial 
in  the  House  the  proud  lessee  spells, 
always,  with  a  capital  H.  There  is  a 
touch  of  pathos  in  the  raptures  of  the 
new  tenants  over  their  abode,  since  it  is 
an  unconscious  revelation  of  the  bare 
simplicity  of  their  former  home-living. 

"The  House  is  eminent,  antique,  wain- 
scoted to  the  very  ceiling ;  broadish  stair 
with  massive  balustrade,  corniced,  and  as 
thick  as  one's  thigh,"  is  one  of  the  hus- 
band's florid  periods.  The  more  practical 
wife  is  almost  as  enthusiastic  : 

"The  house  is  a  massive  concern,  an 
excellent  lodgement  of  most  antique  phys- 
iognomy, all  wainscoted,  carved  and 
queer-looking,  roomy,  substantial,  com- 
modious, with  closets  to  satisfy  any  Blue- 
beard." 

To  our  eyes,  the  ci-devant  "  No.  5  "  is 
a  very  ordinary  affair — a  commonplace 
tenement  in  a  middle-class  Row  ;  moderate 
in   size  and  plain  in   finish,  with  nothing 


70  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

to  commend  it  to  our  notice  except  the 
fact  that  for  two-and-thirty  years  it  housed 
a  Genius,  and  was  kept  by  his  much- 
enduring  wife. 

By-and-by,  as  fame  increased,  and  the 
family  purse  was  heavier,  important 
changes  were  made  in  the  room  above 
the  humble  "parlour."  Up  to  now  it 
had  been  Carlyle's  study.  The  French 
Revolution^  Cromwell,  Latter-Day  Tracts^ 
and  many  of  his  lectures  were  written 
here.  In  1852  was  begun  the  work 
of  "  an  enlargement  of  it  into  a  kind 
of  Drawing-room  according  to  modern 
ideas,"  as  Carlyle  put  it.  Jane  meant 
it  for  a  library,  where  he  could  continue 
to  write,  yet  where  visitors  might  be 
received  in  a  style  somewhat  suitable 
to  their  rising  fortunes. 

But  the  nest  was  stirred.  The  "  excel- 
lent, large,  wholesome  apartment,  in  size 
19  by  18  feet,"  in  which,  Carlyle  tells 
his  brother,  he  is  trying  to  work,  was 
soon  condemned  as  untenantable.  Much 
humouring  of  his  moods  and  tenses  had 
made  him  more  "  notional  "  than  ever. 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  71 

"  For  three  days  his  satisfaction  over 
the  rehabilitated  house  lasted ;  on  the 
fourth  the  young  lady  next  door  took  a 
fit  of  practising  upon  her  accursed  piano- 
forte, and  he  started  up,  disenchanted, 
in  his  new  library  and  informed  heaven 
and  earth  in  a  peremptory  manner  that 
there  he  could  neither  think  nor  live, 
that  the  carpenter  must  be  brought  back, 
and  steps  taken  to  make  him  a  quiet  place 
anywhere — perhaps,  best  of  all,  on  the 
roof  of  the  house." 

The  volcanic  upheaval  gave  Jane  the 
long -sighed -for  drawing-room.  There 
were  portraits  upon  the  walls,  presented 
by  noble  friends,  Albert  Diirer  engrav- 
ings, and  rare  prints ;  two  pier-glasses 
were  between  the  windows,  and  a  square 
mirror  was  over  the  mantel.  Sofas  and 
chairs  were  grouped  with  tables  and  piano  ; 
a  Bramah  grate  was  set  in  blue  tiles  ;  burn- 
ers superseded  lamps,  and  gold-plated 
candlesticks,  silver  and  green  lacquered 
bronze  statuettes,  made  a  show  that  ex- 
cited the  envy  of  plainer  neighbours,  Mrs. 
Carlyle  was  "justly  proud  of  the  room," 


72  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

says  a  chronicler.  She  had  not  a  tithe  of 
the  genuine  comfort  in  it  she  had  known 
in  the  old-fashioned  "parlour"  on  the 
ground-floor. 

A  picture  painted  by  Robert  Tait  for 
Lord  Ashburton  shows  the  Carlyles  at 
home  in  this,  the  "  best  room "  of  their 
earlier  days.  Carlyle,  in  his  plaided  dress- 
ing-gown, pipe  in  hand,  one  of  his  great 
feet  crossed  at  the  ankle  over  the  other, 
leans  against  the  corner  of  the  mantel. 
Jane  sits  in  an  arm-chair  on  the  other  end 
of  the  rug,  serene  and  matronly,  her  chin 
supported  by  her  hand.  The  round  table 
is  strewed  with  books  and  papers ;  through 
the  wide  foldino-.doors  we  see  the  dinincr- 
room,  the  floor  of  which,  like  that  of  the 
"  parlour,"  is  covered  with  the  carpet  from 
the  Craigenputtock  drawing-room,  "  sup- 
plemented by  a  border."  The  cage  of 
"  Chico,"  the  wonderful  canary,  is  on  a 
stand  near  the  open  door  of  the  china- 
room.  Nero,  Mrs.  Carlyle's  pet  dog,  the 
"  infatuated  little  beast  "  who  took  kindly 
to  Carlyle,  lies,  fat  and  fluffy,  upon  a  sofa. 

All   for  comfort,  and   nothing  too   fine 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  ^i 

for  daily  use — is  the  story  told  by  the 
apartment  where  the  piquante,  shrewd, 
busy,  and  usually  sunny-faced,  wee  host- 
ess received  her  husband's  friends  as  her 
own.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  lived  just  around 
the  corner,  dropped  in  every  evening, 
"  always  rather  scrupulously,  though  most 
simply  and  modestly  dressed."  A  "  Kind 
of  Talking  Nightingale,"  Mrs.  Carlyle 
called  him.  She  played  Scotch  tunes  on  the 
piano  for  him,  and  they  read  Burns  to- 
gether ;  then  she  listened  to  his  singing  and 
playing  until  the  supper  of  oatmeal-por- 
ridge was  served.  He  always  took  a  tiny 
bowl  of  it,  and,  after  sugaring  it,  sipped  it 
from  a  tea-spoon  delicately,  in  bird-like 
fashion.  His  wife  borrowed  daily  and 
hourly  from  Mrs.  Carlyle's  kitchen, — tum- 
blers, tea-cups,  a  spoonful  of  tea,  a  cupful 
of  meal, — "  not  having  a  copper  in  her 
purse." 

Thither  came  John  Stuart  Mill,  and 
Mazzini,  with  Count  Pepoli  and  other 
refugees,  and  John  and  Anthony  Sterling, 
and  Froude  and  Forster,  and  dozens  of 
other  uotabt'lm,  to  admire  Carlyle  and  to 


74  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

fall  in  love,  straightway,  with  his  wife,  as 
she  sat  a  queen  among  "  her  dainty  bits 
of  arrangement,  ornamentations,  all  so 
frugal,  simple,  full  of  grace,  propriety  and 
ingenuity,  as  they  ever  were."  Between 
this  and  the  dining-room  stood  the  four- 
leaved  screen,  five  feet  high,  that  kept  her 
busy  for  many  weeks,  "pasting  it  all  over 
with  prints." 

**  It  will  be  a  charming  work  of  art  when 
finished,"  she  says,  merrily. 

Carlyle's  post-mortem  foot-note  is, — 
"  Stands  here  to  this  day,  the  beautifullest 
and  cleverest  screen  I  have  ever  seen. 
How  strange,  how  mournfully  affecting  to 
me,  now !  " 

Especially  how  "  strange  "  !  The 
chances  are  that  he  never  gave  it  a  glance 
while  she  lived. 

Edward  Irving — her  early  lover  and, 
according  to  some,  her  love,  as  well — saw 
her  in  this  room,  one  month  before  his 
death,  and  a  smile  lit  up  his  wan  eyes  as 
he  said, — "  You  are  an  Eve,  making  a  lit- 
tle Paradise  wherever  you  are." 

Ah  me  !  the  miofht-have-beensthat  stare 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  75 

and  gape  upon  us  in  this  crooked,  every- 
day world  of  ours  ! 

We  like  best — and  most  nearly  love — 
Jane  Welsh  Carlyle  here,  and  find  it  in 
our  housewifely  hearts  to  forgive  her  for 
letting  her  lumbering  Craigenputtock  boor 
smoke  his  black  pipe  and  incubate  his 
sublime  and  sullen  fancies,  for  two  immor- 
tal hours,  before  the  kitchen  fire. 

In  all  those  early  years  she  was  a  brave 
little  hypocrite,  deluding  herself  with 
others,  jotting  down  pleasant  and  pious  fic- 
tions for  her  old  mother-in-law,  of  her  con- 
tentment with  her  matrimonial  "  bargain." 

"  I  could  wish  him  a  little  less  yellow, 
and  a  little  more  peaceable — but  that  is 
all,"  she  affirms  within  a  year  after  their 
removal  to  the  Cheyne  Row  Paradise. 
She  usually  meant  what  she  said  at  the 
time,  and  meant  some  things  too  strenu- 
ously for  her  own  happiness  and  her  hus- 
band's comfort. 

It  is  idle  to  attempt  disguise  of  the  truth 
that  she  changed  her  mind  and  her  feel- 
ings materially  with  the  passage  of  years, 
and  the  widening  of  her  world. 


76  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  The  most  intimate  friend  she  had  in 
the  world  "  makes  no  pretences  of  this 
sort  in  commenting  upon  what  was  out- 
wardly the  most  prosperous  period  of  the 
badly  joined  lives  : 

"  She  was  miserable  at  this  time  ;  more 
abidingly  and  intensely  miserable  than 
words  can  utter.  .  .  .  Mr.  Carlyle  once  said 
to  me  that  she  '  had  the  deepest  and  ten- 
derest  feelings,  but  narrow.'  Any  other 
wife  would  have  laughed  at  his  bewitch- 
ment with  Lady  Ashburton,  but  to  her 
there  was  a  complicated  aggravation  that 
made  it  hard  to  endure.  She  was  mak- 
ing daily,  hourly  endeavours  that  his  life 
should  be  as  free  from  hindrances  as  pos- 
sible. He  put  her  aside  for  his  work,  but 
lingered  in  the  *  Primrose  path  of  dalli- 
ance '  for  the  sake  of  a  great  lady  who 
liked  to  have  a  philosopher  in  chains.  Bear 
in  mind  that  her  life  was  solitary — no  ten- 
derness, no  caresses,  no  loving  words ; 
nothing  out  of  which  one's  heart  can  make 
the  wine  of  life.  A  glacier  on  a  mountain 
would  have  been  as  human  a  companion- 
ship." 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  11 

"  My  Man-of-Genius-Husband,"  Jeannie 
calls  the  glacier,  sportively,  with  a  dash  of 
bitterness  in  sparkle  and  foam.  At  this 
time  she  began  the  journal  the  Man-of- 
Genius's  worshippers  blame  Mr.  Froude 
for  publishing.  What  would  you  have  ? 
Misery  cannot  be  forever  silent,  and  paper 
was  a  safer  confidante  than  even  the  "  most 
intimate  friend  I  have  in  the  world." 

"  That  eternal  Bath  House  !  "  is  an  en- 

■% 

try  under  date  of  October  21,  1855.  "  I 
wonder  how  many  thousand  miles  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  has  walked  between  here  and  there, 
putting  it  all  together ;  setting  up  one  mile- 
stone and  another  betwixt  himself  and 
me  ! 

A  more  characteristic  note  is  jotted 
down  on  November  5th. 

"  Alone  this  evening.  Lady  A.  in  town 
again,  and  Mr.  C.  of  course  at  Bath  House. 

"  When  I  think  of  what  I  is 
And  what  I  used  to  was, 
I  'gin  to  think  I  've  sold  myself 

For  very  little  cas." 

Plucky  and  wretched  wee  wifie  !     She 


78  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

gives  a  comical  turn  to  her  very  misery, 
as  one  grimaces  under  torture  to  keep 
from  screaming. 

We  are  wofully  out  of  sympathy  with 
hero-worship  while  we  glance  at  the  mod- 
ernised drawing-room,  pause  reverently  in 
Mrs.  Carlyle's  bedchamber  behind  it,  and 
then  visit  the  sound-proof  folly  that  takes 
in  the  whole  attic-story.  With  all  its  ri- 
diculous contrivances  it  cost  the  never  rich 
couple  one  thousand  dollars,  "turning  out 
to  be,"  as  Jane  bemoans  herself  to  a  cor- 
respondent, "  the  noisiest  apartment  in  the 
house." 

We  lauorh  in  looking^  about  us  at  the 
ventilators  that  collect  and  echo  sound 
and  reject  fresh  air ;  the  front  and  back 
windows  filled  with  ground  glass  to  ex- 
clude sights  from  without ;  the  skylight 
that  must  act  like  a  burning-glass  in  hot 
weather.  It  is  an  ungainly  and  comfort- 
less den, — literally  a  waste  and  howling 
wilderness.  Carlyle  set  his  Scotch  jaw 
grimly  and  finished  Frederick  the  Great 
here,  nevertheless,  then  transferred  writ- 
ing-desk and  books  to  the  dining-room  on 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  79 

the  ground-floor,  where  he  worked  until 
his  death. 

The  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house 
is  thickset  with  associations  of  our  heroine. 
The  "  two  vines  which  produced  two 
bunches  of  grapes  in  the  season "  still 
cling  to  the  wall.  The  stump  alone  re- 
mains of  the  walnut-tree  from  which  she 
gathered  "  almost  sixpence  worth  of  wal- 
nuts." In  the  extreme  left-hand  angle  of 
the  wall  is  the  pear-tree  to  which,  while 
the  house  was  in  repairing,  she  lashed  "  a 
gypsy's  tent,  constructed  out  of  clothes- 
ropes  and  posts  and  the  crumb-cloth  of 
the  library,"  and  sat  under  it  with  her 
work,  meanwhile  superintending  carpen- 
ters and  painters. 

Her  widower  did  some  hard  thinking  in 
the  garden  over  his  "  final  pipe  "  and  un- 
der the  stars,  when  his  "heroic,  lovely, 
pathetic,  noble  and  beautiful  darling" 
had  "  left  him,  as  it  were,  in  her  car  of 
heaven's  fire." 

"HER  little  Gooseberry-bush,  her 
Hawthorn,  Ash-tree,  &c.,  are  in  vigorous 
bud  again,  almost  in  leaf  in  this  Patch  of 


8o  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

Garden,"  he  sentimentalises  in  his  journal, 
two  years  after  her  death,  heedful  of  his 
capitals  in  the  midst  of  his  grief.  "  Nor 
are  these  sad  remembrances  without  some 
use  to  me  ;  solemn,  high  and  beautifui, 
like  the  Gates  of  Eternity,  with  a  light  as 
of  stars." 

We  exchange  uncharitable  views  as  to 
the  depth  of  the  remorse  expressed  in 
syllabical  sobs  between,  and  as  foot-notes 
of,  letters  that  for  spicy  humour,  crisp- 
ness,  play  of  fancy,  and  depth  of  feeling 
have  not  their  equals  in  the  range  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  In  her  garden,  our  hearts 
burn  within  us  with  a  passion  of  pity. 

The  custodian  pauses  on  her  way  back 
to  the  house,  and  looks  over  her  shoul- 
der : 

"You  will  please  observe  that  there  is 
no  side  or  back  entrance  to  the  kitchen. 
All  household  supplies,  even  coals,  were 
brought  in  at  the  front  door,  carried  along 
the  hall,  and  so  down  to  the  basement. 
That  must  have  been  a  trial  to  a  '  particu- 
lar' housekeeper  like  Mrs.  Carlyle.  As 
to  her  other  troubles  " — forsaking  the  per- 


CARLYLE'S    HOUSE    AND    GARDEN. 
"  The  garden  is  thickset  with  associations." 


No.  24  Cheyne  Row  81 

functory  tone  for  one  that  strikes  us  as 
suspiciously  earnest — "  there  are  many, 
many  wives  who  have  just  as  bad — and 
worse — and  the  world  is  none  the  wiser. 
The  difference  is  that  she  made  such  an 
outcry  over  her  tribulations  that,  after  all, 
were  n't  so  peculiar  and  exceptional  as  she 
imagined.  I  'm  not  denying  that  he  was 
a  hard  man  to  live  with,  but  if  she  had 
held  her  tongue,  it  would  have  been  better 
for  his  reputation — and  maybe  for  her 
own.  If  there  was  mustard  in  his  temper, 
there  was  cayenne,  and  plenty  of  it,  in 
hers." 


VI 

DANTE'S    EVERY-DAY   WIFE 


83 


Vci. 


VI 

DANTE'S    EVERY-DAY  WIFE 

HER  name  was,  of  course,  not  Beatrice. 
Neither  did  Petrarch  marry  Laura, 
nor  Werther  his  bread-and-butter  Char- 
lotte. Mrs.  Unwin  never  became  Mrs. 
Wilham  Cowper,  Michael  Angelo  wor- 
shipped, without  espousing,  Vittoria  Co- 
lonna,  and  Pocahontas  wedded  the  prosy 
widower,  John  Rolfe,  instead  of  giving 
her  delicate,  tawny  hand  to  the  other  John 
whose  life  she  had  the  habit  of  saving. 

For  half  an  hour  we  have  been  roaming 
in  and  out  of  the  loops  and  angles  of  alleys 
that  did  active  duty  as  streets  in  the  Flor- 
ence of  1265,  and  which,  unto  this  day, 
have  resisted  the  broadening  and  straight- 
ening propensities  of  modern  engineers. 
Proconsolo,  Pandolfini,  degli  Albizzi,  S. 
Martino,  and  half-a-score  of  other  "  Vias," 
85 


86  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

intersect  and  zigzag  as  the  Makers  of  Flor- 
ence willed,  and  remain  a  joy  forever  to 
the  dreamer  and  historian. 

The  reputed  birthplace  of  Dante  in  the 
obscure  Via  S.  Martino  cowers  in  the  shad- 
ow of  an  ambitious  tower  built  for  the 
tenancy  of  the  foreign  governors  of  the 
city.  It  passed  into  the  possession  of  a 
private  family  before  the  great  poet  was 
born.  La  Casa  di  Dante  may,  or  may 
not,  be  the  same  as  that  occupied  by  his 
parents  and  himself.  The  site  and  the  en- 
virons suffice  to  feed  our  fancies.  About 
a  stone's  cast  away  from  the  home  of  the 
Alighieri,  and  what  would  be  just  "  around 
the  corner,"  if  the  Via  obeyed  just  and 
rectilinear  rules,  lived  Folco  Portinari, 
father  of  the  Beatrice  whose  name  jingles 
as  accordantly  with  Dante's  as  Adam's 
with  Eve's.  This  house  has  also  been 
pulled  at,  if  not  down,  and  reconstructed 
into  a  palace.  The  court  was  unaltered 
in  the  renovations,  and  to  the  right,  as 
one  enters  from  the  street,  is  "  Dante's 
Niche  "  {Nicchia  di  Dante)  where  the  love- 
lorn boy  of  Portinari's  neighbour  made  a 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife       87 

fixture  of  himself  by  the  hour  upon  the 
chance  of  seeing  his  divinity  flit  by  him, 
on  her  way  in,  or  out,  of  her  home.  While 
lingering  and  watching  here,  he  composed 
the  Vita  Nuova — "  a  fantastic,  delicious 
record,  as  pure  and  sweet  as  it  is  vision- 
ary," as  one  appreciative  critic  has  said. 
In  the  innocent  frolic  indulged  in  by  the 
boys  and  girls  of  the  neighbourhood  after 
^festa  given  by  Folco  Portinari,  the  nine- 
year-old  Dante  met,  perhaps  joined  hands 
in  the  games  with,  Beatrice,  a  pretty  girl 
of  eight.  It  is  hardly  possible  that  he  saw 
her  then  for  the  first  time,  but  his  eyes  were 
suddenly  unsealed  by  some  subtle  chrism, 
to  behold  in  her  his  fate  for  time  and 
eternity. 

"  Her  dress  was  of  a  most  noble  colour," 
— he  writes  with  naivete  that  makes  us 
smile — "  a  subdued  and  becoming  crim- 
son, and  she  wore  a  cincture  and  orna- 
ments befitting  her  childish  years." 

A  catalogue  raisonn^  of  ribbons,  sash, 
and  jewels  would  be  an  interesting  item 
in  the  history  of  thirteenth-century  mil- 
linery. 


88  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  From  that  time  forth  Love  held  sov- 
ereign empire  over  my  soul,"  he  adds  in 
earnest  good  faith,  Love  and  Beatrice 
becoming  henceforward  interchangeable 
terms.  He  forthwith  built  a  bower  in 
his  soul,  and  invited  her  in  thought,  never 
by  word  or  glance,  to  dwell  therein  with 
him.  He  seems,  moreover,  to  have  been 
measurably  satisfied  with  such  sublimated 
companionship  for  another  nine  years. 
Then,  as  one  awakening  from  a  vague, 
sweet  dream,  the  watcher  in  the  niche  had 
a  second  apparition  of  "  the  wonderful 
creature." 

"  She  appeared  to  me  in  white  robes, 
between  two  ladies  who  were  older  than 
she  ;  and,  passing  by  the  street,  she  turned 
her  eyes  toward  that  place  where  I  stood 
very  timidly,  and  in  her  ineffable  courtesy 
saluted  me  so  graciously  that  I  seemed 
then  to  see  the  heights  of  all  blessedness." 

For  all  the  dual  chaperonage  that 
guarded  the  eighteen-year-old  beauty,  she 
thus  contrived  to  convey  to  her  adorer 
her  consciousness  of  that  which  must  have 
flattered    her,    if   it    kindled    no   warmer 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife       89 

emotion.  Boccaccio  gives  us  more  than 
one  intimation  that  Dante's  timid  worship 
would  have  been  graciously  approved  had 
it  been  many  degrees  less  "  timid."  At 
their  former  meeting,  "the  child  turned 
her  gaze  from  time  to  time  upon  Dante 
with  so  much  tenderness  as  filled  the  boy 
brimful  with  delight." 

By  and  by,  she  ceased  to  notice  him  in 
passing,  by  so  much  as  a  glance — "  hav- 
ing heard,  as  was  supposed,  evil  tales  of 
him."  A  gratuitous  supposition,  to  our 
way  of  looking  at  the  matter.  Nine  years 
was  a  long  time,  even  in  that  patient  age, 
for  a  pretty  girl  to  wait  for  a  "  declara- 
tion." His  soul  exhaled  in  poetical  sighs, 
but  he  continued  to  stand  by  "  very 
timidly,"  and  asked  no  questions. 

At  twenty,  Beatrice  Portinari  married 
Simone  di  Bardi,  a  husband  designated 
by  her  parents,  an  incident  that  in  no  wise 
altered  her  mystic  relations  with  the  dumb 
lover.  As  philosophically  as  tunefully  he 
says  that  "  the  Lord  Love  has  placed  all 
my  happiness  in  that  which  cannot  be 
taken  from  me."     To  the  public  and  to 


90  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

her  legal  spouse,  she  seemed  to  dwell  in 
Simone  di  Bardi's  house.  To  the  clarified 
senses  of  her  spirit-lover,  she  was  ever  his 
"  own  most  gentle  lady,"  and  filled  the 
bower  he  had  built  with  the  radiance  of 
her  presence. 

For  four  years  after  her  marriage,  "  the 
wonderful  creature,  crowned  and  clothed 
in  humility,"  trod  these  strait  streets, 
seeming  not  to  hear  the  murmurs  that 
followed  her  passing :  "  This  is  not  a 
woman,  but  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
angels  of  heaven."  Then  she  died,  and 
Dante  Alighieri  joined  hands  with  her  in 
perpetual  companionship,  and  walked  with 
her  in  Paradise. 

The  story  is  immortal,  a  miracle  of 
passion  that  was  all  flame,  yet  all  purity, 
of  constancy  to  an  ideal  on  which  Disillu- 
sion never  laid  a  profaning  finger. 

Yet  our  hearts  are  soft,  as  after  a  fall  of 
spring  rain,  with  thoughts  of  another  wo- 
man, concerning  whom  the  poet  has  not 
left  a  line  so  much  as  to  tell  us  that  she 
ever  lived  and  was  seen  by  him,  and  to 
whom  his  biographers  have  not  cared  to 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife       91 

award  the  honour  denied  her  by  the  hus- 
band. 

In  1293 — three  years  after  the  death  of 
Simone  di  Bardi's  wife — Dante  married, 
in  the  dingy  Httle  church  of  S.  Martino, 
hard  by  the  Casa  di  Dante,  Gemma,  a 
daughter  of  Manetti  Donati,  a  wealthy 
and  powerful  Florentine.  Her  family 
was  superior  to  that  of  the  Alighieri  in 
social  and  political  standing,  but  they 
were  neighbours  and  friends,  and  young 
Dante  had  known  Gemma  from  her  child- 
hood. It  is  quite  within  the  probabilities 
that  she  may  have  borne  her  part  in  the 
games  through  which  Beatrice  glided  in 
the  noble-coloured  gown  set  off  by  be- 
coming sash  and  trinkets.  The  marriage 
was  evidently  agreeable  to  both  sides  of 
the  house.  Dante  complimented  one  of 
his  brothers-in-law  by  allotting  to  him  a 
respectable  position  in  Paradise,  and  is, 
himself,  saluted  there  by  the  shade  as 
"  sweet  brother."  In  short,  the  connec- 
tion was  eminently  suitable  in  the  eyes  of 
relations,  friends,  and  gossips  in  general, 
and,   so   far  as  we  can  judge,   a  willing 


92  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

bridegroom  led  a  willing  bride  to  the 
altar  of  the  shabby  little  church  we  now 
enter.  A  dark,  stifling  nook  we  find  it, 
pervaded  by  an  odour  that  may  be  the 
fumes  of  incense  a  hundred  years  old,  and 
much  the  worse  for  keeping.  If  it  was 
no  larger  then  than  at  present,  the  kins- 
people  of  Alighieri  and  Donati  must  have 
overflowed  it  and  the  street,  on  the  wed- 
ding-day, six  hundred  years  ago. 

Was  Gemma  among  the  gentlewomen 
(^gentili  doniie) — "  some  of  whom  had  been 
present  at  my  misfortunes  " — who  pitied 
and  sought  to  console  him  at  Beatrice's 
marriage,  and  again  at  her  death  ?  One 
of  these  fair  and  sympathetic  acquaint- 
ances ran  to  her  lattice  to  look  down 
upon  the  youth  of  the  clear-cut  profile 
and  fathomless  eyes,  who  wrote  love- 
verses  and  had  won  his  spurs  upon  the 
bloody  field  of  Campaldino,  and  who,  al- 
though but  twenty-five,  was  already  spoken 
of  by  one  faction  as  a  turbulent  citizen 
who  might  prove  dangerous  some  day, 
and  by  the  other  as  a  rising  man.  This 
was  six  months  before  Dante's  marriage. 


CHURCH    OF   SAN    MARTINO,    ]N    WHICH    DANTE    WAS    MARRIED. 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife       93 

He  caught  sight  of  the  pitying  face  bent 
upon  him,  and  her  glance  was  a  drop  of 
bahn  upon  his  still  sore  heart.  If  he  (or 
she)  followed  up  the  advantage  afforded 
by  the  accident,  he  was  too  much  en- 
grossed by  the  Vita  Nuova  and  Floren- 
tine politics  to  write  down  the  fact. 

We  know  absolutely  nothing  of  Ma- 
donna Gemma's  personal  appearance,  tem- 
per, taste,  or  habits.  If  she  wore  a 
flame-coloured  gown  when  Dante  asked 
her  hand  in  marriage,  or  white  when  they 
stood  side  by  side  in  the  wee  church 
where  their  fathers  worshipped — nobody 
took  the  pains  to  mention  these  insignifi- 
cant details.  She  looked  after  her  house 
—  probably  her  father's  wedding-present — 
and  her  husband's  diet  and  clothes,  and, 
at  the  end  of  seven  otherwise  unrecorded 
years,  had  added  seven  children  to  the 
furniture  of  their  home,  and  named,  or  let 
the  father  name,  one  of  their  daughters 
"  Beatrice." 

We  are  disposed  to  lay  more  stress  upon 
this  circumstance  than  the  christening  of 
one  child  in  so  large  a  family  would  seem 


94  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

to  demand.  The  mother  was  not  jealous 
of  her  beautiful  early  playfellow,  and  was 
cognisant  of  her  lord's  Platonic  espousals 
to  the  companion  of  his  soul-wanderings 
in  other  worlds  than  ours.  Perhaps — 
poor,  simple  soul ! — she  juggled,  and,  as 
she  thought,  artfully,  to  win  a  morsel  of  the 
sweet  loaf  of  affectionate  commendation 
for  the  pretty  tribute  to  his  spirit-bride. 
He  had  vowed,  when  Beatrice  died,  "to 
say  that  of  her  which  was  never  yet  said 
of  any  woman,"  and  he  fulfilled  the  vow, 
dreaming  and  writing  of  her,  and  weeping 
over  what  he  had  written,  while  Gemma 
bore  and  managed  their  children,  and  made 
purchases  in  the  Mercato  Vecchio,  and  went 
to  church  on  Sundays  and  holy-days  to 
pray  that  his  ambition  and  stiff  principles 
might  not  get  him  into  trouble  with  the 
State. 

So  Poe  kept  tryst  with  "  Lost  Lenore," 
while  Virginia  Clemm,  his  every-day  wife, 
was  dying  of  slow  starvation  in  the  next 
room  of  the  fireless  Fordham  cottage. 

In  1 30 1,  Dante  left  Florence  on  an  em- 
bassy  to    Rome,   lingering  there,   at   the 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife       95 

request  of  the  Pope,  until  a  Florentine 
revolution  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
return  to  his  city  and  home.  Corso  Do- 
nati,  Gemma's  brother,  was  her  husband's 
political  enemy,  but  he  extended  a  grudg- 
ing protection  to  his  sister  and  her  seven 
babies  after  Dante  was  banished  and  pro- 
scribed. Her  house,  close  to  the  church 
of  S.  Martino,  was  no  longer  a  safe  place 
in  which  to  keep  valuables  that  might 
tempt  the  cupidity  of  roving  bands  of 
depredators,  eager  for  news  of  anything 
belonging  to  a  confiscated  estate.  Gemma 
had  been  sole  guardian  of  household  goods 
and  of  children  during  her  husband's  year 
of  absence,  and  was  too  familiar  with 
^nieutes  to  be  taken  by  surprise  by  the 
latest  overthrow.  Family  friends  offered 
to  keep  her  portable  treasures  until  such 
time  as  it  would  be  safe  for  her  to  reclaim 
them.  She  gathered  up  and  packed  in 
stout  coffers  whatever  she  considered  most 
precious,  and  consigned  them  to  acquaint- 
ances less  liable  to  suspicion  than  herself. 
We  see  coffers  every  day  in  "  antiquity  " 
lumber-rooms  in  dark,  out-of-the-rush  quar- 


96  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

ters  of  the  town,  roomy,  and  banded  with 
iron  or  steel,  any  one,  or  six,  of  which  may 
have  served  our  thrifty  house-mother  at 
that  troublous  epoch. 

Six  years  afterward,  when  a  calmer  pe- 
riod intervened,  before  the  outburst  of 
another  revolution.  Madonna  Gemma  de- 
puted her  husband's  favourite  nephew  to 
overhaul  one  of  the  strono;  boxes.  It  was 
filled  with  papers  of  all  sorts,  collected  in 
her  husband's  study.  The  young  fellow, 
burrowing  in  the  confused  mass  in  idle, 
affectionate  curiosity,  happened  presently 
upon  manuscripts  in  his  uncle's  well  known 
handwriting,  poems  and  canzoni,  "  and 
among  the  rest  which  pleased  him  most 
was  a  quadernetto,  in  which  were  written, 
in  Dante's  own  hand,  the  first  seven 
cantos  of  what  appeared  to  him  a  very 
beautiful  thing." 

Dante's  biographers  assume  that  his 
wife  guessed  nothing  of  the  value  of  pa- 
pers, that,  when  restored  to  the  exiled 
poet,  grew  under  his  hand  into  the  In- 
fer7io.  If  they  are  right,  the  more  credit 
belongs  to  her  for  the  love  that  prompted 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife       97 

the  preservation  of  every  scrap  of  parch- 
ment his  pen  had  touched.  They  were 
hoarded — because  they  were  his,  and  not 
for  their  intrinsic  worth — along  with  her 
silver,  jewels,  and  title-deeds.  A  selfish 
woman  would  have  left  them  where  they 
lay,  upon  shelves  and  tables  the  master 
had  not  seen  in  twelve  months.  A  woman 
without  sentiment  would  have  burned 
them  as  waste-paper. 

"  Since  it  has  pleased  God  that  it  should 
not  be  lost,  but  sent  back  to  me,  I  will  do 
my  best  to  follow  up  the  work  according 
to  my  first  intention,"  was  the  pious  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  author  to  the  Provi- 
dence that  had  restored  his  manuscript  to 
him. 

He  was  ready  to  ascribe  praise  to  the 
Great  Giver  of  the  unexpected  good. 
There  was  no  word  then,  or  ever,  for 
God's  humble  instrument  in  the  work  of 
preservation.  The  world  that  cherishes 
his  noblest  poem  as  a  perpetual  heritage 
does  not  look  back  to  the  means  by  which 
it  was  transmitted  to  us. 

Before  the  discovery  of   the    priceless 


98  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

rough  draught  of  the  seven  cantos,  Gemma 
had  sent  her  eldest  born,  Pietro,  a  lad  of 
thirteen,  to  cheer  his  father's  loneliness  in 
Bologna,  and — we  cannot  but  surmise — 
with  some  faint  hope  that  her  husband's 
heart  would  turn  longingly  to  home  and 
her  for  that  in  the  boy's  face  and  voice 
that  recalled  her  younger  and  blither  self. 
Pietro  studied  with  his  father  during 
Dante's  two  years'  sojourn  in  the  univer- 
sity town,  and  accompanied  him  in  wan- 
derings that  ended  in  Ravenna,  "  the 
melancholy  old  city,  old  even  in  Dante's 
day."  A  second  son,  Jacopo,  was  con- 
signed by  his  mother  to  the  expatriated 
father,  a  few  years  after  his  brother  left 
Florence.  Whatever  were  the  mitiga- 
tions of  his  banishment  which  the  two 
brought,  Dante's  heart  yearned  and  sick- 
ened unto  deathly  faintness  for  "  the  most 
beautiful  and  most  famous  daughter  of 
Rome,  Firenza."  "  A  bark  without  sail 
and  without  helm,"  his  passionate  love 
for  the  peerless  Tuscan  city  was  a  magnet 
that  continually  drew  his  thoughts  toward 
her.     Even  after  he  found  a  pleasant  asy- 


DANTE   ALIQHIERI,    FROM   THE    FRESCO   BY  GIOTTO,   FLORENCE. 
"  The  youth  with  the  clear-cut  profile  and  fathomless  eyes." 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife        99 

lum  and  kind  friends  in  Ravenna,  he 
passed  whole  days  in  the  balsamic  boski- 
ness  of  her  pine  groves,  "  thinking  of 
Florence  and  civil  wars,  and  meditating 
cantos  of  his  poem," 

Be  assured  that  if  the  name  of  Gemma, 
or  of  the  young  daughters,  fast  growing 
to  womanhood,  ever  passed  his  lips  or 
escaped  from  his  pen,  we  should  have 
heard  of  it.  If  he  pined  for  home  it  was 
because  that  home  was  in  Firenza,  not 
because  Firenza  was  home. 

Madonna  Gemma  Alighieri  never  looked 
again  into  the  deep  eyes  and  upon  the  clas- 
sic face  whose  beauty  had  captivated  and 
held  her  heart.  The  exile  drew  his  last 
sigh  in  Ravenna  in  1321,  a  homesick  pil- 
grim to  the  close  of  his  fifty-six  years, 
dreaming  hopelessly,  almost  in  the  death- 
hour,  of  return  to  his  native  country,  and 
of  "  hiding  his  white  hairs  beneath  the 
leaves  "  of  the  laureate's  crown  bestowed 
by  repentant  compatriots. 

"  And  there  can  be  no  doubt,"  we  state 
upon  the  authority  of  Boccaccio,  "that  he 
was  received  into  the  arms  of  his  most  no- 


loo         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

ble  Beatrice,  with  whom,  in  the  presence  of 
Him  Who  is  the  Chief  Good,  leaving  all 
miseries  of  the  present  life,  they  now  most 
lightsomely  live  in  that  happiness  to  which 
there  comes  no  end." 

Dante  had  foreseen,  in  beatific  vision, 
this  apotheosis  a  quarter-century  before. 

"  May  it  please  Him,  Who  is  the  Lord 
of  courtesy,  that  my  soul  may  see  the  glory 
of  my  lady,  that  blessed  Beatrice,  who 
gloriously  beholds  His  face." 

We  find  no  entry  anywhere  of  Gemma's 
death,  or  if  she  were  wife  or  widow  when 
she  and  the  working-day  world  parted  com- 
pany. Pietro  and  Jacopo  left  Ravenna 
after  their  father's  death,  and  became  two 
gentlemen  of  Verona  under  the  patronage 
of  a  noble  friend  of  Dante.  Alive  or  dead, 
their  mother  had  no  hold  upon  their  alle- 
giance. They  were  weaned  from  her  and 
from  Florence. 

We  never  pass  the  Piazza  Santa  Croce 
without  pausing  to  look  at  the  statue  of 
Dante  in  the  centre  of  the  square.  It  was 
set  here  when  he  had  been  dead  five  hun- 
dred and  forty-four  years. 


Dante's  Every-Day  Wife      loi 

"  Florence  now  to  love  him  is  content," 
is  the  tardy  congratulation  of  an  Anglo- 
Italian  poet.  There  is  a  suggestion,  in 
the  statue,  of  the  haughty  disdain  we  can 
imagine  the  hunted  exile  might  have  felt 
had  he  been  foretold,  in  dying,  of  the  post- 
humous tribute.  One  nervous  hand  has 
gathered  up  his  robe,  as  from  contact  with 
the  dust  of  the  city  that  barred  her  gates 
and  her  heart  against  him,  and  now  ranks 
him  among  her  gods.  About  the  pedestal 
the  Florentine  lions  hold  up  to  the  specta- 
tor shields  lettered  with  the  titles  of  his 
famous  works.  Conspicuous  among  them 
is  that  of  the  Vita  Nuova,  wherein  he  re- 
deemed his  pledge  to  the  shade  of  the 
"  blessed  Beatrice,"  and  the  far  nobler  In- 
ferno, saved  to  him  and  to  posterity  by 
the  housewifely  thrift  and  single-hearted 
devotion  of  his  Every-Day  Wife. 


VII 
THE  PROPHET  OF  SAN  MARCO 


103 


VII 

THE  PROPHET  OF  SAN  MARCO 


IT  is  a  solemn  shade  that  has  walked 
with  us  all  through  the  forenoon  of 
this  April  day.  A  shade  with  a  visage  as 
sad  as  was  his  life,  as  stern  as  his  death, 
has  moved  at  our  side.  From  the  Duomo, 
which  was  thronged  for  six  years  with 
Florentines  of  every  grade  of  society  and 
order  of  intellect,  to  listen  to  the  Preacher- 
monk  of  San  Marco, — along  streets  twist- 
ing between  cliff-like  walls  which  echoed 
to  his  footsteps,  four  hundred  years  agone, 
— to  the  now  commonplace  Piazza  San 
Marco. 

The  plain  facade  of  the  Church  and  the 
low  wings  of  the  cloisters  bound  one  side  ; 
more  modern  buildings,  pensiones  and 
shops,  the  other  three.  A  hideous  tram- 
way enters  the  square  at  the  side  of  the 
105 


io6         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

cloisters,  and  runs  the  entire  length  to  the 
egress  at  the  bottom  of  the  open  space. 
The  centre  of  the  quadrangle  is  planted 
with  bushy  palms  and  stubbly  palmettoes, 
and  out  of  the  stiff  and  sombre  greenery 
rises  a  semi-colossal  statue  of  a  modern 
Italian  patriot,  facing  the  street  that  bears 
the  name  of  another  hero  of  Young  Italy. 

On  a  day  as  balmy  as  this,  about  the 
beginning  of  Lent  in  1498,  the  Piazza  was 
packed  to  suffocation  by  a  concourse  of 
men  and  women,  many  kneeling,  some 
standing,  all  with  eyes  fixed  upon  a  soli- 
tary black-robed  figure  lifted  far  above 
their  heads  by  a  scaffold  erected  against 
the  front  wall  of  the  Church. 

The  monk's  cowl  had  fallen  back  from 
the  upraised  face ;  the  noble  head  and 
draped  figure  stood  out  in  bold  relief 
against  the  pale  blank  behind  him.  At 
the  full  length  of  his  right  arm  he  held  the 
Pyx  above  his  head.  In  rising  from  his 
knees  after  a  moment  of  silent  prayer,  he 
had  spoken  one  sentence.  The  wonderful 
voice  that  had  so  often  swayed  the  mixed 
multitude  in  the  Duomo,  pealed  to  the  re- 


The  Prophet  of  San  Marco    107 

motest  outskirts  of  the  square,  a  volume 
of  sound  that  might  have  fallen  from  the 
vast  hollow  of  the  heavens  above  the 
startled  host.  The  excommunicated  man 
had  already  and  publicly  defied  the  thun- 
ders of  the  Pontifical  throne  : 

"  He  who  has  gained  the  Pontifical  chair 
by  bribery  is  not  Christ's  Vicar.  .  . 
His  commands  are  contrary  to  the  Chris- 
tian life.  It  is  lawful  to  disobey  them," 
were  words  that  had  shaken  all  Florence 
and  all  Italy  to  superstitious  trembling. 
His  challenore  now  was  to  Hiofh  Heaven  : 

"  If  I  have  said  anything  to  you,  citizens 
of  Florence,  in  the  name  of  God  which 
was  not  true  ;  if  the  Apostolical  censure 
pronounced  against  me  is  valid  ; — if  I 
have  deceived  a^iyone — pray  to  God  that 
He  will  send  fire  from  Heaven  upon  me 
and  consume  me  in  presence  of  the  peo- 
ple,— and  I  pray  our  Lord  God,  Three  in 
One,  whose  body  I  hold  in  this  Blessed 
Sacrament,  to  send  death  to  me  in  this 
place  if  I  have  not  preached  the  truth." 

Then,  in  the  upper  air  where  he  stood, 
and  over  the  praying  masses  below,  there 


io8         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

was  silence  about  the  space  of  half-an-hour 
before  Girolamo  Savonarola  descended 
the  pulpit  steps  and,  attended  by  a  proces- 
sion of  friars  and  acolytes,  chanting  a  Te 
Deu7n,  returned  to  the  Convent. 

Still  following  the  solemn  shade,  we 
walk,  seldom  uttering  a  word,  past  what 
was  once  the  peaceful  Convent  garden, 
where,  in  his  earlier  and  happier  days, 
Savonarola  gathered  the  novices,  whom  he 
fondly  called  "  our  angels  "  {i  nostri  angi- 
oli),  in  an  arbour  covered  by  damask  roses, 
— and  so  on,  along  corridors,  and  by  cells 
painted  with  "  incomparable  sweet  angels," 
and  other  sacred  subjects,  by  Fra  Angel- 
ico,  upon  his  knees, — until  we  reach  the 
Prior's  Cell.  A  portrait  of  Savonarola 
from  the  brush  of  his  trusty  and  well- 
beloved  Fra  Bartolommeo,  hangs  against 
the  wall.  It  is  hardly  more  distinct  to  our 
bodily  eyes  than  the  shadowy  visage  we 
have  had  with  us  all  the  morning.  Rug- 
ged, uncomely,  the  heavily  moulded  feat- 
ures belying  the  tradition  of  his  gentle 
blood,  and  telling,  more  forcibly  than  his 
pen    has    done,    what    battles    the    spirit 


CELL   OF   SAVONAROLA    IN    CONVENT   OF   SAN    MARCO, 


The  Prophet  of  San  Marco    109 

waged  with  flesh  and  passion — it  is  yet 
the  face  of  a  master  among  men,  and  a 
conqueror  to  the  end,  even  when  that  end 
was  a  shameful  death. 

The  resemblance  to  George  Eliot,  often 
commented  upon  by  those  who  have  com- 
pared the  two  portraits,  is  the  more  strik- 
ing to  us  now,  for  the  circumstance  that  a 
volume  of  Romola  is  our  companion  in  this 
day's  round,  and  we  have  read  the  elo- 
quent description  of  the  friar's  appeal  to 
Heaven,  standing  just  where  the  shadow 
of  the  pulpit  and  the  gowned  figure  must 
have  fallen  on  that  memorable  morning. 
His  crucifix  is  here,  his  rosary,  the  hard 
chair  in  which  he  sat  at  "his  desk,  some 
MSS., — among  them  his  sober  and  sensi- 
ble argument  against  "  The  Trial  by  Fire," 
proposed,  and  afterward  insisted  upon,  by 
his  Franciscan  enemies, — his  hair-cloth 
shirt,  and  a  bit  of  browned  wood  from 
which  we  withdraw  our  eyes  quickly.  It 
was  taken  from  the  pile  on  which  he  was 
burned  to  ashes  in  the  Piazza  della  Si- 
gnoria,  at  the  will  of  the  Florence  he  had 
saved,  over  and  again,  from  the  power  of 


I  lo         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

her  enemies  ;  the  fair  Florence  he  sought, 
with  his  latest  breath,  to  save  from  the 
worst  of  her  foes,  even  her  violent,  disso- 
lute, rapacious,  and  most  ungrateful  self. 

There  is  one  window  in  the  Prior's  Cell, 
and  it  differed  in  nothing  from  the  com- 
fortless niches  occupied  by  his  subordi- 
nates, except  in  the  simple  grandeur  of 
him  who  tenanted  it.  In  memory  of  what 
made  that  difference,  we  bend  our  heads  in 
reverence,  and  our  hearts  swell  to  aching. 

His  farewell  to  Convent  and  Brother- 
hood, and  to  his  "  angels,"  was  said  in  the 
vaulted  library  near  the  close  of  that  very 
Lent  ushered  in  by  the  scene  in  the  Piazza 
which  we  have  described.  A  mob,  led  by 
the  vilest  fellows  of  the  parties  opposed  to 
Savonarola's  endeavours  to  reform  a  cor- 
rupt Church  and  regulate  a  lawless  State, 
attacked  the  Church  of  San  Marco  during 
the  Vesper  Service  of  Palm  Sunday.  The 
small  congregation  dispersed  in  terror, 
leaving  the  inmates  of  the  Convent  to  sup- 
port the  fury  of  the  assault.  The  monks 
attempted  a  brave,  but  vain,  defence  of 
their  altar  and  their  lives.     Savonarola, 


The  Prophet  of  San  Marco    1 1 1 

crucifix  in  hand,  cast  himself  between  the 
rioters  and  his  friends,  and  led  the  de- 
voted little  band  out  of  the  burning  church 
into  the  great  library.  As  calmly  as  if 
they  had  been  kneeling  as  usual  for  even- 
ing prayer  and  to  receive  his  benediction, 
he  told  them  that  the  end  of  the  long 
struggle  had  come. 

"  I  little  thought  that  the  whole  city 
would  so  soon  have  turned  against  me  ; 
but  God's  will  be  done  !  My  last  admon- 
ition to  you  is  this — Let  your  arms  be 
Faith,  Patience,  and  Prayer.  I  leave  you 
with  anguish  and  pain,  to  pass  into  the 
hands  of  my  enemies.  I  know  not  whether 
they  will  take  my  life.  But  of  this  I  am 
certain, — that  dead,  I  shall  be  able  to  do 
far  more  for  you  in  Heaven  than  living  I 
have  ever  had  power  to  do  for  you  on  earth. 
Be  comforted,  embrace  the  Cross,  and  by 
that  you  will  find  the  haven  of  salvation." 

He  threaded,  for  the  last  time,  the  fa- 
miliar streets  by  the  route  we  now  take  to 
the  Piazza  della  Signoria.  His  hands 
were  bound  tightly  behind  him  ;  the  hoot- 
ing, hustling    populace   followed  so  hard 


112         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

after  him  that  the  pent-house  made  over 
his  head  by  the  crossed  pikes  and  swords 
of  the  soldiery,  whose  orders  were  to  bring 
him  to  their  masters  alive,  did  not  suffice 
to  ward  off  all  blows  and  missiles.  He  was 
dragged  thus,  battered  and  bleeding,  and 
more  dead  than  alive,  past  the  Duomo, 
where,  less  than  two  years  before,  he  had 
preached  to  "  more  people  than  could  get 
into  the  Cathedral." 

"  They  got  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
and  came  to  the  door  of  the  Cathedral, 
waiting  outside  'till  it  should  be  opened. 
Then  the  silence  was  great  in  the 
church,  each  one  going  to  his  place  ;  and 
he  who  could  read,  with  a  taper  in  his 
hand,  read  the  service  and  other  prayers. 
Thus  they  waited  three  or  four 
hours  'till  the  Padre  (Savonarola)  entered 
the  pulpit.  And  the  attention  of  so  great 
a  mass  of  people,  all  with  eyes  and  ears 
attent  upon  the  preacher,  was  wonderful. 
They  listened  so,  that  when  the  sermon 
reached  its  end,  it  seemed  to  them  that 
it  had  scarcely  begun." 

This  had  gone  on  for  the  eight  years  he 


The  Prophet  of  San  Marco     113 

had  foretold  as  the  duration  of  his  mighty 
work  in  that  place. 

Bruised,  and  we  hope  in  mercy,  stunned, 
the  fallen  Father  (!)  was  carried  across  the 
great  Piazza  della  Signoria,  over  the  very 
spot  covered  in  the  Carnival  of  1496  with 
the  pyramidal  bonfire  of  vanities  collected 
by  his  regiment  of  converted  gamins. 

The  reformer  was  then  upon  the  top 
wave  of  popular  favour.  The  effort  "  to 
get  up  the  dear  old  masques  and  practical 
jokes,  well  spiced  with  indecency,"  was  fu- 
tile at  that  memorable  festa. 

"  Such  thinors  were  not  to  be  tolerated 
in  a  city  where  Christ  was  declared  King." 
The  Florentine  street -boys,  the  agents 
in  the  collection  of  dice,  playing-cards, 
"  masks  and  masquerading  dresses  ;  hand- 
some copies  of  Ovid,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca, 
Pulci,  and  other  books  of  a  vain  or  im- 
pure sort ;  rouge-pots,  false  hair,  mirrors, 
perfumes,  powders,  and  transparent  veils 
.  and  on  the  top  of  all,  the  sym- 
bolic figure  of  the  old  debauched  Carni- 
val,"— paraded  the  streets,  "  singing  divine 
praises,  and  walking  in  white  robes." 


114         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

Their  leader  was  watchful  of  them 
throughout.  . 

"The  Florentine  youth  had  very  evil 
habits  and  foul  tongues.  It  seemed,  at 
first,  an  unmixed  blessing  when  they  were 
got  to  shout,  '  Viva  Gesii !'  But  Savo- 
narola was  forced  to  say,  at  last,  from 
the  pulpit :  *  There  is  a  little  too  much 
shouting  of  "  Viva  GesU  !  "  This  constant 
utterance  of  sacred  words  brings  them 
into  contempt.'" 

The  coat-of-arms  of  the  so-called  "  regen- 
erate city"  is  carved  upon  the  front  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio — the  letters  "  I.  H.  S." 
encircled  by  rays.  It  was  not  there  when 
he  who  had,  nevertheless,  proclaimed  his 
Lord  and  Master  King  of  Florence,  and 
of  the  Universe,  was  haled  into  the  gates 
to  prison  and  to  torture. 

We  mount  the  hundreds  of  stone  steps 
he  was  forced  to  climb  while  he  could 
walk,  up  which  he  was  borne  by  cursing 
jailors  after  each  repetition  of  the  tortures 
applied  without  pity  and  without  stint. 

"  We  have  had  to  deal  with  a  man  of  the 
most  extraordinary  patience   of  body  and 


The  Prophet  of  San  Marco    1 1 5 

wisdom  of  soul,  who  hardened  himself 
against  all  kinds  of  torture,"  wrote  his 
judicial  murderers  to  their  Commander, 
the  Pope  of  Rome,  whom  the  "  man"  had 
defied.  "  Notwithstanding  a  long  and 
most  careful  interrogatory,  and  with  all 
the  help  of  torture,  we  could  scarcely 
extract  anything  out  of  him  which  he 
wished  to  conceal  from  us,  although  we 
laid  open  the'  inmost  recesses  of  his  mind." 
In  the  intervals  separating  these  various 
processes  of  laying  open  his  mind,  he  was 
confined  in  the  eyrie  to  which  we  have 
laboriously  ascended, — the  Alber^ghettino, 
a  cell  so  strait  that  a  tall  man  could 
hardly  stretch  himself  in  it.  A  mere  slit 
of  a  window  showed  him  a  section  of  blue 
sky  by  day,  a  star  or  two  by  night.  When 
they  brought  him  in,  fainting  from  the 
rack,  they  flung  him  upon  the  stone  ledge 
that  served  him  for  a  bed  by  night,  a  seat 
by  day.  The  street  sounds  of  the  false 
city  that  had  spewed  him  out  of  her 
mouth,  came  up  to  him  like  sighing  break- 
ers upon  a  distant  shore.  Here  and  thus 
he  spent  the  Easter  of  1498. 


ii6         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

Pen  and  ink  were  ahvays  within  his 
reach — left  there  with  a  purpose — and 
with  devilish  craft.  With  them  he  wrote 
"  Meditations "  upon  such  passages  as 
''Have  mercy  up07i  me,  O  God,  according 
to  Thy  loving- kindness^'  and  ''  Pull  7ne  out 
of  the  net  that  they  have  laid  privily  for 
me,  for  Thou  art  my  strength^  The  rack 
had  dislocated  his  left  arm  and  wrist ;  the 
right  hand  was  spared  that  he  might  afhx 
a  legible  signature  to  his  recantation. 

Failing  to  extort  this,  they  condemned 
him  to  die  in  the  bonfire  (bel  fuoco) 
which  his  enemies  had  promised  them- 
selves and  their  associate  demons  should 
ere  long  light  up  the  grey  brows  of  the 
Palazzo  Vecchio. 

He  passed  his  last  night  of  pain,  by 
gracious  and  special  permission  of  the 
Signoria,  in  the  hall  on  a  lower  floor 
{the  Sala  dei  Cinquecc7it6).  It  had  been 
enlarged  under  Savonarola's  own  superin- 
tendence to  accommodate  two  thousand 
citizens,  should  they  wish  to  converse 
upon  affairs  of  State.  He  had  preached 
here  several  times,  in  the  days  when  his 


The  Prophet  of  San  Marco    1 1 7 

word  was  law  as  well  as  gospel,  to  his 
fickle  hearers,  and  upon  the  wall  were 
lettered  words  dictated  by  himself — of 
which  this  is  a  poor  translation  : 

"  If  this  great  council  and  sure  government, 
O  people  !  of  thy  city,  never  cease 
To  be  by  these  preserved,  as  by  God  sent. 
In  freedom  shalt  thou  ever  stand,  and  peace." 

The  two  friars  who  were  also  to  die  on 
the  morrow  were  with  him,  and  they 
talked  together  until  his  strength  gave 
out,  of  what  they  were  to  endure,  and  what 
lay  beyond.  As  their  Master  had  not 
protested  His  innocence  upon  the  Cross, 
he  said  to  them,  neither  should  they  speak 
to  the  people  to-morrow.  It  would  soon 
be  over  now,  and  so  he  bade  "  God  bless 
them,"  and  "  Good-night,"  before  falling 
asleep  with  his  head  in  the  lap  of  the 
younger  of  the  two. 

At  sunrise,  they  partook  of  their  last 
Sacrament,  and  repeated  together  their 
last  Confession  of  Faith.  On  their  way 
along  the  platform  stretched  from  the 
Palazzo  to  the  gallows  and  funeral  pyre 


ii8  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

erected  over  there  in  the  square,  Savona- 
rola was  overheard  by  his  executioners 
repeating  to  himself :  "  /  believe  in  God, 
the  Father  Almighty,  Maker  of  Heaven 
and  earth,  and  in  'Jes2LS  Christ,  His  Only 
Son,  our  Lord"  and  so  on  to  the  close  of 
the  Creed. 

For  three-hundred-and-odd  years  the 
women  of  Florence  used  to  resort  to  the 
Piazza  della  Signoria  to  lay  flowers  upon 
the  spot  where  rested  the  gallows'  foot  on 
the  23d  of  May,  1498,  in  grateful  memory 
of  the  prophet  whom  their  fathers  had 
killed. 

"  In  Heaven,"  said  a  successor  of  the 
Pope  who  ordered  the  deed,  "  I  shall 
know  the  explanation  of  three  great  mys- 
teries— the  Immaculate  Conception,  the 
suppression  of  the  Society  of  Jesus,  the 
death  of  Savonarola.  .  .  .  Saint,  schis- 
matic, or  heretic,  ignorant  vandal  or  Chris- 
tian artist,  prophet,  or  charlatan,  champion 
of  the  Roman  Church,  or  apostle  of  eman- 
cipated Italy — which  was  Savonarola?" 

The  Church  by  whose  Infallible  Head 
he  was  brought  to  the  torture-chamber  and 


PALAZZO   VECCHIO,    FLORENCE. 
Where  Savonarola  was  imprisoned,  and  in  front  of  which  he  was  burned. 


The  Prophet  of  San  Marco    1 19 

the  scaffold,  and  the  world  that  was  not 
worthy  of  him,  give  a  tardy  answer. 

A  certain  Monseigneur,  a  Lord  Cardi- 
nal, interested  himself  actively  in  a  cele- 
bration of  the  four  hundredth  anniversary 
of  Savonarola's  "  martyrdom."  There 
were  memorial  services  and  a  solemn 
mass  in  honour  of  him  who  was  born  four 
centuries  too  soon,  the  Italian  Luther, 
whose  eyes  were  not  to  behold  the  dawn 
of  the  Reformation  his  faith  forecast. 


VIII 

A  FOURTEENTH-CENTURY 
NEW  WOMAN 


131 


VIII 

A  FOURTEENTH-CENTURY 
NEW  WOMAN 

THE  Pensione  della  Santa  Caterina,  the 
quaintest,  cleanest,  and  altogether 
most  home-like  Traveller's  Refuge  we 
have  found  on  the  Continent,  is  our  abid- 
ing-place during  our  stay  in  Siena, 

The  city  itself  is  a  treasury  of  rich  and 
rare  interests  to  historian  and  archaeolo- 
gist. "  They  say,"  and  we  choose  to  be- 
lieve, that  it  was  founded  by  Senio,  the 
son  of  Remus,  hunted  from  Rome  by  his 
uncle  Romulus.  We  receive  the  legend 
into  good  and  credulous  hearts,  laughing, 
once  and  again,  at  the  perverse  inclination 
to  reverse  the  outlaw's  relationship  by 
saying  "  Uncle  Remus."  The  easy  belief 
is  "  rubbed  in  "  at  every  third  corner  by 
the  group  of  the  nursing  wolf  and  twin 
123 


124         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

babies  in  bronze  or  stone.  We  counted 
ten  iron  pillars  capped  by  it  in  one  drive 
through  the  streets.  The  streets,  that  are 
the  steepest  we  have  ever  slid  down  or 
trudged  up ;  the  hoary  towers  and  palace 
fagades  fretted  to  the  eaves  with  carvings 
a  thousand  years  old  ;  the  unbroken  wall 
of  ruddy  bricks,  as  old  and  as  hard  as  the 
grey  stones,  belting  the  eyrie  of  Longo- 
bard  kings  and  Ghibelline,  of  Guelph  and 
the  Dukes  of  Lorraine, — are  replete  with 
fascination. 

Yet  the  name  and  the  fame  of  a  woman 
drew  us  to  Siena.  And  staunch  Protest- 
ants though  we  are,  our  first  visit  in  the 
town  is  to  the  Fullonica,  otherwise  the 
house  of  Giacomo  Benincasa,  the  "ful- 
lone,"  or  dyer,  whose  daughter  Catherine 
has  given  more  repute  to  her  native  town 
than  all  the  warriors,  artists,  and  sages 
who  had  part  in  Siena's  glory  and  in  her 
humiliation. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  and  as  we  had 
expected,  superstition  has  conspired  with 
bad  taste  to  do  away  with  every  trace  of 
domestic  occupation,  such  as  would  have 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    125 

made  the  respectable  mediaeval  abode  of  a 
respectable  tradesman  a  source  of  reveren- 
tial delight  to  the  intelligent  pilgrim. 
When  we  have  gained  the  head  of  the 
flight  of  stone  steps,  glossy  with  age,  lead- 
ing from  the  street  to  the  door  of  the 
house,  and  which  were  here  in  Catherine's 
lifetime,  disillusion  begins  its  foul  work. 
The  roof,  under  which  twenty-five  children 
were  born  to  Giacomo  and  Lapa,  his  wife 
(who,  by  the  way,  lived  to  the  age  of 
ninety),  has  given  place  to  the  arches  and 
loftier  ceilings  of  a  chapel.  The  loggia 
and  a  church  are  built  over  the  garden 
where  the  fourteen  children  who  grew  to 
man's  and  woman's  estate  played  and 
quarrelled  and  made  up  again,  and  Cath- 
erine tended  the  flowers  she  loved  always 
and  wove  into  garlands  on  saints'  days, 
and  bound  into  bouquets  for  her  sick  pen- 
sioners. The  room  where  she  collected 
her  co-workers  of  the  order  of  the  Mantel- 
lata  to  help  her  sew  for  the  town  poor  is 
deformed  into  a  gaudy  oratory  ;  in  the 
floor  of  her  tiny  bedroom  we  are  invited 
to  look  at  the  stone  pillow  on  which  she 


126         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

laid  her  head  at  night  after  a  day  of  toil, 
fastings,  and  prayers.  The  stone  is  pro- 
tected by  a  grating  from  the  hands  and 
lips  of  pitying  visitors.  A  glass  frame 
contains  fragments  of  her  veils  ;  the  head 
and  upper  part  of  her  walking-stick ;  the 
vinaigrette  she  used  in  the  wards  of  pest- 
houses,  and  to  revive  the  plague-stricken 
creatures  who  fell  dying  in  the  streets  ; 
the  lantern  that  lighted  her  steps  when 
summoned  by  night  on  errands  of  mercy  ; 
and,  what  drives  us  out  of  the  house  in  a 
fit  of  disgustful  impatience,  the  "  Borsa  ove 
la  portata  da  Roma  da  Siena  la  sacra  testa 
della  Santa" — the  bag  in  which  the  head  of 
the  saint  was  brought  from  Rome  to  Siena. 

She  died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-three. 
The  next  year,  "  the  Republic  of  Siena 
having  expressed  by  a  deputation  of  its 
citizens  to  the  Roman  Pontiff  its  jealousy 
of  the  honour  of  the  possession  of  the 
body  of  the  saint,"  the  Pope  (Urban  VI.) 
ordered  the  "pious  mutilation,"  and  pre- 
sented the  head  to  Catherine's  native 
town. 

A  peep  into  Giacomo's  workshop  is  a 


ENTRANCE  TO  SAINT  CATHERINE'S  HOUSE. 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    127 

welcome  diversion  of  unpleasing  thoughts. 
It  adjoins  the  chapel  that  was  his  dwell- 
ing, and  opens  into  the  salesroom  where 
his  wares  were  exposed  for  sale.  Upon 
shelves  running  around  three  sides  of  the 
room  are  queer  little  parcels,  all  of  the 
same  size,  and  bearing  a  surprising  re- 
semblance to  neat  paint-pots.  Each  is 
gayly  coloured,  and  emblazoned  with  the 
arms  of  the  noble  families  whose  repre- 
sentatives have  visited  the  place  and  left 
tokens  of  reverential  esteem  for  dyer  and 
daughter. 

Hurrying  out  to  avert  the  profanation 
of  a  genuine,  nineteenth-century  laugh, 
we  are  arrested  upon  the  stone  stair  by 
what  brings  back  the  tone  of  thought  and 
speech  we  have  wished  to  maintain 
throughout  what  is,  in  effect,  a  pious 
pilgrimage. 

High  up  on  the  wall  of  a  house  across 
the  way  is  a  stone  label  bearing  the  figure 
of  a  goose  in  bold  relief.  We  are  in  the 
Ward  of  the  Goose  ( Contrada  d'Oca),  a 
district  peopled  in  1337,  the  year  of  Cath- 
erine Benincasa's  birth,  by  artisans,  small 


128         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

shopkeepers,  and  day-labourers.  In  the 
thirty-three  years  that  followed,  it  became 
the  most  illustrious  quarter  of  the  city,  al- 
though still  tenanted  by  the  lower  classes, 
and  only  because  it  was  the  lowly  born 
woman's  home. 

The  strait,  precipitous  street  is  more 
like  a  tunnel  than  a  thoroughfare,  and 
the  prospect  of  the  distant  country  is  seen 
at  the  other  end  of  the  vista  as  in  a  mas- 
sive frame.  Hills — noble  in  outline,  soft 
and  rich  in  colour,  with  silver-grey  swath- 
ings  of  olive  orchards  drawn  across  their 
breasts — meet  the  unfathomable  blue  of 
the  Italian  firmament.  At  the  foot  of  the 
street  is  the  famous  Fonte  Branda,  built 
in  the  twelfth  century.  Lion's  heads,  fe- 
rocious through  all  these  centuries,  are 
thrust  out  from  the  wall,  and  within  the 
arched  enclosure  is  a  series  of  square 
tanks,  the  upper  emptying  into  the  lower. 
Here,  ever  since  the  lions  took  up  their 
watch  and  ward  above,  the  Sienese  women 
have  washed  household  linen,  and  scolded, 
and  held  a  Gossips'  Exchange,  as  they  are 
doing  this  very  hour.     The  clear  water  of 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    129 

the  upper  tank  becomes  yeasty  with  suds 
in  the  second  and  third.  The  soiled  Hnen 
is  dipped  into  the  pool  common  to  all  who 
come,  drawn  back  to  the  marble  edge  of 
the  tank,  soaped  abundantly,  scrubbed 
with  a  stiff  brush,  swashed  about  in  the 
water,  again  drawn  up,  wrung,  and  tossed 
into  baskets.  The  din  of  slapping  the 
wet  clothes  upon  the  marble  ledge,  sousing, 
rubbing,  and  shaking  them,  is  a  staccato 
accompaniment  to  the  shrill  clack  of  un- 
modulated peasant  voices.  The  foot-path 
winding  up  the  cliff  behind  the  fountain 
is  the  shortest  route  to  the  Church  of  San 
Dominico,  and  we  begin  the  ascent,  pur- 
sued by  the  tumult,  and  pausing,  midway, 
for  another  look  at  the  singular  scene. 

Six  hundred  years  ago  the  women  of  the 
Contrada  d' Oca  were  working,  quarrelling, 
and  hobnobbing  noisily  together,  when 
the  dyer's  daughter,  —  eyed  with  affec- 
tionate reverence  by  the  many,  with  idle 
curiosity  by  some,  by  a  very  few  enviously, 
— stayed  her  feet  on  the  way  to  the  place 
of  prayer,  to  ask  gently  after  this  one's 
young  child,  and  to  offer  her  services  in 


I30         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

nursing  that  one's  aged  mother,  or  to  take 
home  the  family  mending  of  the  over- 
wrought mother  of  a  large  famil)\  She 
never  volunteered  censure,  or  adverse 
criticism  in  the  hearing  of  others  than  the 
sinner's  self  ;  as  a  child-saint,  whose  visions 
and  aspirations  set  her  apart  from  the  rest 
of  Giacomo  and  Lapa's  brood,  she  was 
never  priggish.  Humility  grew  and  mel- 
lowed into  meekness  with  her  years.  We 
can  think  how  the  clamour — louder  than 
the  sparrings  and  cacklings  of  a  poultry- 
yard,  and  not  unlike  them  in  emulous  dis- 
cords— if  hushed  while  Catherine  talked 
with  the  workers,  swelled  out  anew  as 
the  slight  form  disappeared  over  the  brow 
of  the  bank.  The  foot-path  is  lined  now, 
and  doubtless  was  then,  with  the  drying 
"  wash,"  spread  upon  bushes  and  turf. 
One  wizened  little  crone  toils  up  ahead  of 
us  with  a  basket  of  damp  linen,  as  big,  and 
apparently  as  heavy,  as  herself,  on  her  back. 
A  pair  of  the  superb  white  oxen  of  the 
Siena  cavipagna,  harnessed  to  a  cart,  bar- 
ricades the  direct  route,  and  she  will  not 
diverge  by  so   much  as  a  foot   from  the 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    131 

beaten  path.  In  a  voice  as  shrill  and  cross 
as  a  guinea-hen's,  she  calls  the  owner  from 
his  house,  "  to  take  his  beasts  out  of  an 
honest  woman's  road,"  and  when  he  obeys, 
goes  on  upward,  grumbling  at  every  step. 

Such  were  Catherine  of  Siena's  social 
compeers  and  daily  associates.  Soul  and 
thought  might  soar  into  celestial  ether  ;  her 
feet  were  bound  to  coarsest  mire.  We 
picture  to  ourselves  the  fragile  figure, 
quickening  its  speed  involuntarily  to  gain 
the  holy  silence  of  the  ugly  church  and 
escape  from  the  windy  storm  of  tempers, 
the  tempest  of  tongues. 

There  is  a  high  mass  in  San  Dominico 
to-day.  We  are  met  at  the  entrance  by 
the  smell  of  incense,  the  sound  of  chanting 
voices,  the  sight  of  a  kneeling  crowd  as- 
sembled just  without  a  small  but  ornate 
chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Catherine.  It  is 
lined  with  exquisite  paintings.  A  fresco 
by  Sodoma,  representing  the  saint's  ecstatic 
swoon  in  the  arms  of  two  attendant  nuns, 
is  startling  in  beautiful  realism  as  seen  in 
the  subdued  light  shed  by  the  altar-lamps. 
We  have  happened  upon  a  "holy  day," 


132         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

we  speedily  discover,  and  one  of  the  half- 
dozen  or  so  a  year  when  the  head  of  St. 
Catherine  is  exhibited  alike  to  the  believ- 
ing and  the  skeptical.  We  see  it — a  livid 
memento  mori,  enough  like  her  portraits  to 
pain,  as  well  as  repel,  us.  It  is  enclosed 
in  a  hermetically  sealed  tabernacle,  but  the 
flare  of  the  altar-candles  falls  full  upon  it. 
Some  of  the  women  weep,  all  kneel  and 
cross  themselves,  eyes  bent  upon  the  holy 
relic  ceded  to  Siena  by  the  gracious  See 
of  Rome. 

After  one  swift  look,  we  turn  away  and 
retreat  noiselessly  from  the  crowd,  finding 
our  way,  without  guide  or  sacristan,  to 
what  we  came  hither  to  see, — the  real 
chapel  and  oratory  of  Catherine  of  Siena. 

Such  a  plain,  bare  room  to  eyes  aching 
from  the  gorgeousness  of  the  shrine  built 
over  and  above  the  poor,  dismembered 
head  !  A  few  cheap  frescoes ;  a  mean 
altar  at  one  end  ;  above  the  altar  the  one 
authentic  likeness  of  Catherine  extant, 
painted  by  an  artist  who  was  her  disciple 
and  dear  friend  ;  a  tablet  or  two,  and  stone 
benches  built  into  the  walls — these  are  all 


SAINT  CATHERINE    OF   SIENA. 
The  only  authentic  portrait  extant. 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    133 

we  see,  and  we  are  thankful.  Thankful, 
especially,  that  besides  ourselves,  not  a 
human  creature  enters  the  room  during 
the  silent,  busy  half-hour  we  spend  in  the 
effort  to  winnow  biography  from  tradition, 
and  history  from  ecclesiastical  and  ex  cathe- 
dra detail. 

For  we  do  not  forget  in  Protestant  and 
rational  intolerance  with  the  usual  run  of 
the  "  Lives  of  the  Saints,"  that  Catherine 
Benincasa  was  no  more  a  myth  than  Joan 
of  Arc,  or  than  Bernardino  Ochino,  born, 
like  her,  in  the  Ward  of  the  Goose,  whose 
"words,"  said  the  Emperor  Charles  V., 
"  would  move  stones  to  tears."  The  four- 
teenth century  produced  no  woman  who 
was  her  equal,  few  men  who  excelled  her 
in  mental  gifts,  and  none  who  were  her 
superiors  in  virtue.  We  have  read,  and 
then  turned  our  backs  upon,  the  entabla- 
tured  inscription  telling  that  "  Here  she 
was  invested  with  the  habit  of  St.  Domi- 
nic ;  and  she  was  the  first  woman  who 
ever  wore  it.  Here,  she  remained  with- 
drawn from  the  world,  listening  to  the 
Divine  Services  of  the  Church,  and  here. 


134         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

continually  in  divine  colloquy,  she  con- 
versed familiarly  with  Jesus  Christ,  her 
Spouse.  Here,  leaning  against  this  pilas- 
ter, she  was  rapt  in  frequent  ecstasies." 

The  tales  of  her  trances  ;  her  miracles 
of  faith,  of  healing  and  of  prophecy ;  the 
visions  and  revelations  in  which  she  be- 
lieved as  devoutly  as  the  Maid  of  Orleans 
in  her  "  Voices  " — are  to  be  interpreted 
by  the  help  of  latter-day  common-sense, 
and  appreciation  of  intellectual  and  spirit- 
ual laws  unknown  in  the  Middle  Agres. 
We  are  sure  that  Catherine  was  sincere  in 
her  mysticism,  not  upon  the  authority  of 
the  forty  biographies  written  of  her,  but 
because  she  was  a  good  and  a  truthful 
woman.  We  know — thanks  to  the  abun- 
dant enliorhtenment  of  these  same  latter 
days — that  the  asceticism  which  ruined 
her  health  and  brought  her  to  an  early 
grave,  the  hair-cloth,  and  the  starvation  of 
her  beautiful  body,  the  stone  pillow  and 
the  bed  of  planks,  surrounded  by  other 
planks,  that  she  might  ever  be  mindful  of 
death  and  the  coffin, — were  grievous  er- 
rors, even  in  a  generation  that  accounted 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    135 

them  unto  its  holy  ones  as  righteousness. 
Setting  all  this  aside,  the  wonder  of  her 
day  is  even  more  a  wonder  unto  ours. 

Born  a  year  before  the  outbreak  of  the 
plague  that  reduced  the  population  of  Si- 
ena from  one  hundred  thousand  to  one- 
fifth  of  that  number,  she  lived  in  childhood 
and  early  womanhood  under  the  chill 
shadow  of  that  awful  visitation.  The 
brevity  of  human  life  and  the  vanity  of 
mortal  hopes  ;  the  supreme  importance  of 
preparation  for  Eternity,  and  the  duty 
of  each  pious  soul  to  other  souls, — were 
borne  in  upon  her  young  mind  by  all  that 
she  saw  and  heard  until  she  resolved  to 
think  of  nothing  but  Christ  and  His  king- 
dom, to  devote  every  power  of  her  mind, 
every  hour  of  her  time,  every  affection  of 
her  soul,  to  His  service.  In  the  exalta- 
tion induced  by  resolve  and  effort,  she 
beheld,  when  but  six  years  of  age,  "look- 
ing up  to  the  glorious  clouds  of  evening 
over  the  gable  end  of  the  church  of  S. 
Dominico,  a  vision  of  Jesus,  very  gloriously 
apparelled,  and  terrible  in  majesty  and 
beauty,    Who    looked    towards    her    and 


136         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

smiled  lovingly  upon  her,  extending  His 
hand  in  blessing." 

When  the  trance  was  rudely  broken  by 
her  little  brother's  tug  upon  her  hand,  she 
"  turned  homewards,  weeping.  From  this 
moment  she  became  more  grave  and 
thoughtful  than  before." 

To  the  like  seasons  of  rapt  devotion, 
when  she  could  not  have  told  whether  she 
were  in  the  body  or  out  of  it,  may  be  re- 
ferred her  mystic  espousal  to  Christ,  a 
claim  made  for,  rather  than  by,  her,  that 
has  prejudiced  the  minds  of  sober  Protest- 
ants against  her  whole  character  and  pro- 
fessions. 

Again  translating  into  our  everyday 
speech  the  pious  hyperbolism  of  her  times, 
we  draw  from  the  tale  of  St.  Catherine's 
Marriage  the  simple  truth  that  hers  was 
a  "  life  hid  with  Christ  in  God."  Rowland 
Hill,  the  great  English  preacher,  clothed 
the  same  longing  and  its  glorious  fulfil- 
ment in  the  homely  hymn  he  loved  to 
chant,  walking  up  and  down  his  room 
while  his  face  "  was  as  the  face  of  an 
angel "  : 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    137 

"But  this  I  do  find, 
We  two  are  so  joined, 
He  '11  not  go  to  glory  and  leave  me  behind." 

We  do  not  misunderstand  St.  Paul's  talk 
of  "  bearing  about  in  his  body  the  marks 
of  the  Lord  Jesus."  When  Catherine 
Benincasa  used  a  similar  figure  of  her 
wasted  and  racked  frame,  her  admirers, 
unlearned,  and  full  of  superstitious  fancies, 
whispered,  awe-stricken,  stories  of  the 
"■stigmata^'  and  churchly  annals  have 
aided  church-ridden  artists  in  the  per- 
petuation of  the  legend.  Catherine's 
biographers,  contemporary  and  of  later 
date,  expressly  say  that  she  never  spoke  of 
having  received  the  stigmata. 

With  all  her  dreams  and  mystic  revela- 
tions, her  religion  was  practical  and  most 
Christlike.  She  was  full  of  good  works 
and  alms-deeds  which  she  did,  esteeming 
no  office  menial,  no  gift  a  sacrifice  that 
lessened  the  sufferings,  or  heightened  the 
happiness  of  Christ's  "  little  ones."  She 
was  always  cheerful,  even  joyous,  we  are 
told,  full  of  tenderest  charity  for  the  err- 
ing,   yet    courageous    in    rebuking   wilful 


T38  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

sins.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  she  was  the 
leader  of  the  order  of  the  Mantellata,  a 
Woman's  Charitable  Society,  as  we  would 
term  it.  In  1374  the  plague  broke  out 
again  in  Siena.  The  rich  and  great  fled 
from  the  city  ;  those  who  could  not  go 
died  by  the  thousand.  "  Sometimes  the 
priests  and  those  who  carried  out  the  dead 
sat  down  to  rest,  and  never  rose  again," 
and  some  of  the  poorer  streets  were  liter- 
ally blocked  with  corpses.  At  the  head 
of  her  Mantellatas,  Catherine  wrought, 
night  and  day,  "  in  the  most  infected 
quarters,"  nursing  the  sick,  feeding  the 
starving,  preparing  the  dead  for  burial. 
Instances  are  not  wanting-  of  what  were 
rated  as  miraculous  cures  wrought  by  her 
prayers,  and  here,  again,  the  testimony  of 
her  disciples  outran  her  modest  confession 
of  means  and  end.  She  believed  firmly, 
she  said,  that  "  the  prayer  of  faith  shall 
save  the  sick,  in  every  case  in  which  that 
fulfilment  was  for  the  good  of  the  sufferer, 
and  for  the  glory  of  God." 

As  who  of  us  who  calls  himself  a  Christ- 
ian does  not  ? 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    139 

Furthermore,  she  "  persuaded  the  pa- 
tient to  make  a  confession  of  sin,  then 
spoke  peace  to  his  conscience  through  faith 
in  Jesus  Christ,  and  sought  to  inspire  him 
with  a  joyous  courage  and  resolution." 
No  wiser  regimen  could  have  been  carried 
on  in  the  plague-smitten  city  when  men's 
hearts  were  failing  them  for  fear,  the  fear 
that  slew  more  than  the  pestilence. 

She  visited  hardened  criminals  in  their 
prisons,  going,  fearlessly  and  alone,  to 
talk  and  pray  with  the  most  depraved  of 
these  ;  attended  them  to  the  scaffold  and 
received  their  dying  testimony  to  the  sav- 
ing Faith  she  held  and  taught. 

But  the  circumstance  that  set  her  apart 
in  a  peculiar  sense  from  others  of  her  age 
and  sex  at  a  time  when  marriage  or  the 
cloister  was  the  only  choice  granted  to 
women  of  every  degree,  was  that  the 
Dominican  Fathers,  acceding  to  her  cher- 
ished desire  to  preach  the  Gospel  of  Christ, 
actually  commissioned  her  to  act  as  an 
Evangelist,  and  that  public  opinion  sus- 
tained her  in  the  New  Departure.  She 
maintained  that  her  warrant  for  the  bold 


140         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

innovation  upon  established  customs,  and 
defiance  of  conventional  prejudices,  came 
from  a  Higher  Power  than  the  ghostly 
Fathers  who  had  received  her  into  the 
third  order  of  the  Dominicans.  I  quote 
from  her  answer  to  the  Divine  "leading" 
sent  in  answer  to  her  prayers  : 

"  Lord !  not  my  will,  but  Thine,  be 
done  !  for  I  am  only  darkness  and  Thou 
art  all  light.  .  .  .  How  can  I,  who 
am  so  miserable  and  fragile,  be  useful  to 
my  fellow-creatures  ?  My  sex  is  an  ob- 
stacle, as  Thou,  Lord,  knowest,  as  well 
because  it  is  contemptible  in  men's  eyes, 
as  because  propriety  forbids  me  any  free- 
dom of  converse  with  the  other  sex." 

The  struggle  closed  with  her  humble — 
"  Behold  the  handmaide?i  of  the  Loi'd.  Be 
it  unto  me  eveit  as  Thoii  wilt !  " 

In  one  of  her  many  itineraries  she  ad- 
dressed an  audience  of  two  thousand 
people,  "  beseeching  them,  for  the  love 
of  Jesus,  to  be  at  peace  with  one  another, 
and  to  follow  the  banner  of  the  Prince  of 
Peace." 

"  Peace "  was  the  word  ever  upon  her 


A  14th-century  New  Woman    14' 

lips  in  that  turbulent  age.  She  reconciled 
private  citizens,  families,  religious  fraterni- 
ties, and  political  parties.  She  was  sent 
for  to  Florence,  where  she  was  the  guest 
of  the  Soderini  family ;  to  Pisa,  and  was 
met  on  the  way  by  a  wealthy  merchant 
with  a  "  goodly  company  "  of  leading  men 
to  conduct  her  and  her  friends  to  the 
merchant's  palace.  From  this  place  she 
wrote  "  many  letters  on  the  affairs  of  the 
Church  and  the  Republics,"  .  and  there 
conceived,  and  began  to  communicate  to 
prelate  and  soldier,  the  idea  of  the  union 
of  all  Christendom  in  a  Crusade  for  the 
recovery  of  Jerusalem  from  the  hands  of 
the  Turks. 

Her  most  notable  achievement  was  the 
successful  embassy,  undertaken  "at  the 
Divine  command,"  to  Pope  Gregory  XI.  at 
Avignon,  the  then  Papal  Court.  Against 
his  own  will,  and  in  the  teeth  of  fierce 
opposition  from  the  most  influential  party 
at  Court,  this  delicate  woman  of  the  peo- 
ple wrought  upon  him,  by  argument  and 
pleadings,  to  restore  the  See  to  Rome, 
and    it   became    once    more   the    seat    of 


142         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

government  As  an  example  of  her  man- 
ner of  dealing  with  the  Pontiff  I  give  a 
brief  extract  from  her  first  letter  to  him  : 

"  You  will  never  reduce  your  subjects 
to  submission  by  the  sword.  .  .  .  The 
spirit  of  strife  and  the  absence  of  virtue, 
these  are  the  two  things  which  are  causing 
the  Church  to  lose  ground  more  and  more. 
If  you  wish  to  regain  what  you  have  lost, 
your  only  means  of  doing  so  is  to  re- 
trace your  steps,  and  to  reconquer  your 
lost  dominions  by  the  encouragement  of 
virtue  and  by  peace.  Pardon,  beloved 
Father,  my  presumptuous  boldness." 

A  Roman  Catholic  writer  says  :  "  She 
struck  at  the  root  of  the  evil, — the  im- 
morality of  the  clergy  and  the  odious 
government  of  the  Papal  legates." 

In  another  letter  she  firmly  and  frankly 
reminds  the  Pope  that  his  prelates  and 
priests  "are  a  thousand  times  more  en- 
tangled in  the  luxury  and  vanities  of  the 
world  than  the  laity ;  for  indeed,  many  of 
the  laity  put  the  pastors  to  shame  by  their 
pure  and  holy  lives.  .  .  .  Open  your 
eyes,  O  Father,  and  see  what  these  people 


A  14th  Century  New  Vv^oman    143 

are  who  are  called  apostles  of  the  flock, 
and  how  they  devour  the  poor  ;  how  their 
souls  are  filled  with  greed  and  hatred,  and 
how  they  have  made  their  bodies  vessels 
of  every  kind  of  abomination." 

It  is  not  easy  in  reading  this  and  other 
of  her  letters  to  credit  that  she  taught  her- 
self to  write  after  she  was  eighteen  years 
of  age.  Simple  as  an  unspoiled  child, 
when  she  was  the  most  famous  woman  in 
all  Italy,  she  liked  best  to  be  known  as 
"  The  Daughter  of  the  Republic "  and 
"  The  Child  of  the  People."  Other  and 
loving  epithets  were  showered  upon  her 
by  her  townsmen.  She  was  "  Our  Lady 
of  the  Contrada  d'Oca,"  "  The  People's 
Catherine,"  "  The  Blessed  Plebeian."  Her 
Meditations  and  her  Philosophy,  like  her 
epistles,  are  clear  in  diction,  strong,  and 
even  eloquent  in  style,  and  full  of  the  pure 
and  lofty  spirit  she  carried,  like  a  charmed 
treasure,  in  a  violent,  besotted,  and  licen- 
tious age. 

She  died  April  29,  1380,  in  Rome,  spent 
by  the  heroic  effort  to  infuse  purity  and 
true  faith  into  a  corrupt  Church. 


H4         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  Lord  !  Thou  callest  me,  and  I  go  to 
Thee  !  Not  on  account  of  my  merits,  but 
solely  on  account  of  Thy  mercy  !  "  were 
amonof  her  last  words. 

The  list  of  her  correspondents  is  a  curi- 
ous study.  Among  them  were  Florentine 
jailors;  Sienese  prisoners;  "an  abominably 
profligate  man,  name  not  mentioned  "  ;  a 
Jew  usurer  of  immense  wealth;  John 
Hawkwood,  the  English  soldier  of  fortune  ; 
her  "little  niece,  Jenny";  Gregory  XI. 
and  his  successor,  Urban  VI.  ;  Bernabos 
Visconti,  the  tyrant  Duke  of  Milan ;  a 
currier  and  his  wife  at  Lucca  ;  Laurencio 
di  Pino,  Professor  of  Law  in  the  Univers- 
ity of  Bologna  ;  the  Signoria  of  Siena, — 
etc.,  etc.,  the  roll  embracing  every  rank  in 
society  and  half-a-dozen  nationalities. 

She  "had  most  of  her  visions"  in  this 
neglected  chapel,  unadorned  to-day  save 
by  such  memories  as  we  have  conjured  up. 
She  kneaded  bread  for  the  public  poor 
with  her  own  hands  and  baked  it  in  the 
big,  yawning  oven  we  saw,  this  morning, 
in  the  disused  cellar  of  the  Pensione  di 
Santa  Caterina. 


A  14th  Century  New  Woman    145 

One  of  her  sayings  was,  "  Patience — the 
touchstone  of  all  the  virtues."  The  sweet 
saint  and  true  woman,  the  counsellor  of 
princes,  the  confidante  of  weavers'  wives, 
— the  uncomplaining  invalid  who  made 
of  the  pangs  she  belittled  smilingly  as 
"gentle  pains,"  so  many  rounds  in  the 
ladder  by  which  she  neared  the  loftiest 
type  of  Christian  life, — had  proved  the 
virtue  of  her  touchstone. 


IX 

THE  GINEVRA  TALE 


147 


IX 
THE  GINEVRA  TALE 

'"T'HERE  is  no  story  so  perfect  as  the 

A       Ginevra  Tale." 

Thus  one,  who,  when  we  have  made 
allowance  for  inaccuracies,  extravagance 
of  sentiment,  and  a  floridness  of  style  that 
is  often  tawdry,  gives  us  the  very  breath 
and  soul  and  light  of  Florence. 

As  a  novel  Pascarel  is  below  criticism  ; 
historically,  it  is  full  of  flaws.  As  a  prose 
poem,  it  brings  us,  wherever  we  may  be 
in  body,  face  to  face,  heart  to  heart,  with 
the  glorious  mistress  of  the  Arno,  and 

"  With  dreamful  eyes. 
The  spirit  lies, — " 

not  "  under  the  walls  of  Paradise,"  but 
dwells  within  the  dear  old  streets,  cool 
with  purple  shadows  in  the  hottest  noon- 
tide, and,  morning,  noon,  and  midnight, 
149 


150         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

thronged  with  ghosts  that  are  never  laid. 
I  asked  for  the  "perfect  story"  this 
afternoon  in  a  bookseller's  shop,  not  a 
hundred  paces  away  from  the  Street  of 
the  Dead  (  Via  della  Morte)  changed  from 
the  Via  del  Campa7tile  because  of  what 
happened  here,  one  night,  in  a  Past  that 
is  grey,  but  never  decrepit.  Scribe  has 
told  it  to  us  in  a  poem  made  almost  trite 
by  average  and  amateur  elocutionists. 
Italian  ballad-mongers  count  the  versified 
tale  as  a  stock  article,  and  it  has  been 
put  upon  the  stage  in  yet  another,  and 
more  meretricious,  form.  But  there  is  no 
printed  authentic  version  of  the  romance 
in  detail.  We  have  to  go  back  to  Boc- 
caccio for  the  graphic  outline  of  an  event 
which,  for  thrilling  dramatic  interest,  casts 
every  other  Florentine  legend  into  the 
shade.  Boccaccio  availed  himself  of  it, 
but  did  not  invent  it. 

"  But,  yes,  it  is  quite  true.  It  is  his- 
tory, not  tradition,"  said  the  bookseller, 
surprised  at  our  questioning.  "  She  was 
Ginevra  degli  Amieri.  You  will  see  from 
that  corner," — pointing  through  his  door, 


The  Ginevra  Tale  151 

— "  the  site  of  her  husband's  house  in  the 
Co7'so  dcgli  Adimarz." 

Instead  of  obeying  the  direction  of  his 
finger,  we  have  come  to  the  Square  of  the 
Duomo,  and,  recalHng  the  fact  that  the 
door  of  the  family  vault  in  which  the  sup- 
posed corpse  was  interred,  was  between 
Cathedral  and  Campanile,  we  locate  the 
same  to  our  satisfaction.  "  The  lily  of 
Florence,  blossoming  in  stone,"  the  Cam- 
panile of  Giotto,  "the  model  and  mirror 
of  perfect  architecture,"  was  then  unfin- 
ished, a  truncated  shaft,  and  but  a  mass 
of  gloom  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
when  the  affrighted  creature  struggled 
back  to  life.  All  about  the  base  of  the 
great  Cathedral  were  tombs,  and  the  Pi- 
azza was  paved  with  lettered  slabs,  shut 
down  fast  upon  burial-vaults.  The  rest- 
ing-places of  their  dead  were  but  care- 
lessly guarded  by  their  rich  citizens  who 
had  the  right  to  lay  their  kindred  here. 
The  tomb  of  the  Medici  in  the  Church  of 
San  Lorenzo,  for  four  centuries,  had  no  se- 
curer protection  from  grave-robbers  than 
wooden  doors  and  common  bolts  and  hasps. 


152         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

Ginevra  Amieri,  in  love  with  one  man, 
was  married  to  another  by  the  will  of  her 
patrician  father.  "He  preferred  Fran- 
cesco Agolanti  to  Antonio  Rondinelli, 
because  he" — Agolanti — "was  of  noble 
family,"  says  Boccaccio.  Also,  that  Gi- 
nevra "  could  never  be  reconciled  to  the 
marriage  that  was  arranged  for  her."  She 
had  been  the  wife  of  Agolanti  several  years, 
when  she  fell  ill,  and,  sinking  into  a  sort 
of  cataleptic  trance,  was  pronounced  dead 
by  the  physicians.  The  hasty  interment 
customary  at  that  day  in  Italy  took  place 
within  twenty-four  hours ;  the  stone  was 
lowered  to  its  place  over  the  mouth  of  the 
crypt,  and  the  mourners  went  their  ways 
to  their  homes. 

It  was  midnight  when  Ginevra  awoke. 
She  lay  in  an  open  niche,  dressed  in  grave- 
clothes  ;  her  wrists  were  bound  firmly  in 
the  form  of  a  cross  upon  her  breast,  and 
she  knew  the  stifling  blackness  of  the  place 
to  be  that  of  the  charnel-house.  As  soon 
as  the  horror  of  the  truth  let  her  use  her 
senses,  she  untied  the  ribbon  from  her 
wrists,  groped  her  way  to  the  steps  lead- 


ir^  i 


The  Ginevra  Tale  153 

ing  to  the  upper  world,  and  exerted  all  her 
strength  to  raise  the  stone  laid  over  the 
entrance  to  the  vault,  succeeding  finally 
in  sliding  it  far  enough  aside  to  allow  the 
passage  of  her  body.  Her  only  garment 
was  her  shroud  ;  her  feet  were  bare.  Put- 
ting out  her  hands  in  the  obscurity,  she 
could  feel  on  one  side  the  cold  stones  of 
the  Cathedral,  on  the  other  the  marbles 
of  the  Campanile,  and  guided  her  course 
by  these  into  the  unlighted  streets.  Still 
feeling  her  way  past  the  headquarters  of 
the  Misericordia, — and,  we  may  hope, 
gleaning  courage  from  the  thought  of  the 
love  and  mercy  of  man  to  his  suffering 
fellows,  typified  by  the  Order, — she  en- 
tered the  narrow  way  that  now  commem- 
orates her  sorrowful  wanderings,  and 
emerged  into  the  street  on  which  stood 
her  home. 

The  husband,  who  believed  himself  a 
widower,  was  sleeping — we  charitably  sup- 
pose— "  for  sorrow."  Awakened  by  the 
irregular  knocking  upon  the  lower  door, 
he  looked  from  the  window  and  asked 
who  was  there.     A  feeble  voice  answered 


154  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

with  his  wife's  name.  In  the  disorder  of 
wits  produced  by  the  abrupt  awakening 
and  the  shock  of  the  supernatural  visita- 
tion, he  cast  one  glance  below,  and  see- 
ing the  glimmer  of  white  garments,  cried 
out  to  the  spirit  to  begone,  shut  the 
casement  in  deadly  terror,  and  fell  to 
saying  his  prayers,  lest  wood  and  stone 
might  not  avail  to  exclude  the  bodiless 
intruder. 

Her  father  lived  in  the  Mercato  Vecchio. 
That  most  picturesque  antique  of  Flor- 
ence has  been  demolished  and  swept  away 
by  the  besom  of  Sanitary  Reform.  We  are 
not  at  a  loss,  however,  as  to  the  site  of 
the  Amieri  house.  It  was  so  near  the 
Church  of  S.  Andrea  that  the  terrified 
parent  might  have  bethought  himself  of 
the  comparative  security  from  diabolical 
intrusions  afforded  by  the  vicinity  of  the 
sanctuary.  But  one  look  from  his  iron- 
grated  lattice  at  the  shivering  Thing  that 
cried  to  him  in  Ginevra's  voice  to  let  her 
in,  drove  every  thought  from  his  mind  ex- 
cept the  frantic  desire  to  exorcise  the  lying 
devil,  or  ghost.     He  shrieked  to  her  to  go 


The  Ginevra  Tale  155 

away,  and  bolted  his  window  against  her 
sobs  and  entreaties. 

We  return  upon  the  imaginary  trail 
left  by  her  bleeding  feet  over  the  rough 
stones,  to  the  Via  Caizaiolt,  now  one  of 
the  noisiest  of  the  narrow  throats  of 
Florentine  traffic, — on  that  night  as  still 
as  the  tomb  the  deserted  woman  had 
left,  and  wellnigh  as  gloomy,  a  deep 
well,  between  lofty  houses  whose  pro- 
jecting eaves  almost  met  above  her 
head. 

In  the  porch  of  S.  Bartolommeo,  an  old 
church  even  then,  she  laid  her  down,  chilled 
to  the  bone  and  heart,  spent  and  despair- 
ing, and  prayed  for  death,  as,  a  little  while 
before,  she  had  prayed  for  strength  to 
hold  the  life  given  back  to  her. 

"Then,"  says  the  simple  story,  "she  re- 
membered her  beloved  Rondinelli,  who 
had  always  proved  faithful  to  her." 

Remembered  him  !  What  woman  who 
lives  and  has  ever  loved  and  been  loved, 
will  believe  that  she  had  forgotten  him  for 
one  instant  after  she  knew  that  she  was  still 
in  the  same  world  with  him  ?  I  have,  never- 


156         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

theless,  always  been  glad,  in  my  secret 
soul,  that  Ginevra  went,  first  of  all,  to  the 
husband  whose  she  was  by  the  law  of 
the  land,  her  Church,  and  her  con- 
science. Dizzied  though  she  was  by  ill- 
ness and  fright,  the  faintness  of  dying 
and  the  shock  of  coming  back  to  life,  her 
instinct  of  honour  and  right  held  fast. 
Her  solemn  vows  had  been  plighted  to 
Francesco  Agolanti,  and  death  had  not, 
after  all,  parted  them.  Where  he  was, 
was  home,  and  to  that  asylum  she  sped, 
with  never  a  thought  of  seeking  any 
other. 

One  variation  of  the  tale  sends  her  to 
the  house  of  an  uncle,  after  her  father  had 
driven  her  from  his  door.  This  kinsman 
lived  in  the  Mercato  Vecchio,  not  far  from 
the  home  of  her  girlhood.  He,  too,  had 
repulsed  her  with  horror  and  loathing, 
before  she  crawled,  like  a  shot  dove,  into 
the  church-porch  to  die. 

We  are  gratified  by  the  circumstance 
that  the  street  into  which  w^e  next  direct 
our  steps  still  bears  tlu;  name  of  Rondi- 
nelli.     Since  his  was  not  a  noble  house. 


The  Ginevra  Tale  157 

and  therefore  low-esteemed  in  the  eyes  of 
haughty  Bernardo  Amieri,  it  is  hardly 
likely,  or  so  we  reason,  that  the  thorough- 
fare was  called  after  his  forefathers.  We 
choose  to  synchronise  the  re-christening 
with  that  of  the  Via  del  Campanile — from 
that  night  and  forevermore,  the  Via  della 
Movie — and  make  the  change  one  of  the 
scores  of  memorials  to  faithful  love  and 
heroic  endeavour  the  ancient  Florentines 
delighted  to  honour,  and  to  bequeath  to 
prosaic  generations  following. 

The  actual  abode  of  Antonio  Rondi- 
nelli  was  razed  to  the  ground  centuries 
ago.  We  do  not  require  the  help  of  stone 
walls  and  barred  windows  and  the  heavy 
lower  door  against  which  the  fainting 
woman  sank,  after  one  feeble  knock  upon 
the  panels,  in  our  reproduction  of  the 
scene.  Antonio  did  not  sleep  that  night. 
At  last,  after  years  of  hopeless  separation, 
his  love  was  again  all  his,  in  the  spirit  that 
had  never  truly  belonged  to  Agolanti. 
He  might  dream  and  think  of  her  now, 
without  sin.  Without  so  much  as  a 
thought  of  wrong,  her  freed  soul  might 


158         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

commune  with  his.  Through  all  the 
years  of  the  Eternity  in  which  he  would, 
one  day,  rejoin  her,  they  would  live  and 
love  together.  Aroused  by  the  low  rap- 
ping at  his  door  from  musings  sweet  and 
welcome  as  visions  from  that  Blessed 
Land — so  much  the  more  blessed  because 
of  her  dwelling  therein — he  called  to  the 
unseen  visitor : 

"Who  is  there?" 

**  It  is  I — Ginevra  !  " 

It  was  scarcely  a  surprise.  That  she 
should  speak  to  him  was  as  natural  as  her 
comintj  to  him  in  the  beautiful  dreams  that 
had  held  his  eyes  waking. 

There  is  a  book-mark  in  our  worn  copy 
of  Pascarel.  We  open  at  that  page  and 
read,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  Rondi- 
nelli's  house.  The  beat  of  passing  feet 
upon  the  sidewalk,  the  roar  of  wheels  and 
click  of  hoofs,  gay  shop-windows  and  cas- 
ual and  curious  glances, — are  the  dream. 
The  cold  night,  the  form  at  the  open  case- 
ment bending  to  listen  to  the  faint  accents 
from  below,  the  drooping  figure,  prone 
on   the   earth,   vague  and  dim,   as  if  her 


The  Ginevra  Tale  159 

empty  shroud  had  been  tossed  into  the 
deep  embrasure  of  the  doorway, — these 
are  the  real  things  with  which  we  have 
to  do. 

We  do  not  read  aloud.  Yet  the  air 
stirs  and  throbs  with  words  we  hear,  rather 
than  see : 

"  Then,  at  last,  the  lover's  threshold, 
the  timid  3ummons  of  despair,  the  open 
door,  the  instant  welcome  ;  not  a  doubt, 
not  a  question,  not  a  fear.  Living  or  dead, 
of  heaven  or  of  hell — what  matter  which  ? 

"  What  matter  whence  she  came  ? 

"What  matter  what  she  brought? 

"  Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  as  flowers 
in  the  May-time. 

" .  .  .  And  it  was  all  true,  too,  here, 
in  this  Via  della  MorteT 

"  His  parents,"  we  have  read  elsewhere, 
"  cared  for  her  tenderly,  and  she  was  soon 
restored  to  health." 

The  mother,  from  whom  the  son  got 
his  faithful  heart,  is  the  actor  that  com- 
pletes the  group  for  us.  Her  gentle  hands 
were  busy  with  the  wanderer,  no  longer 
homeless,    when    she    awoke    from    her 


i6o         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

swoon  ;  In  her  safe  and  honourable  keep- 
ing her  son's  love  remained  until  she  be- 
came his  wife. 

Scribe,  and  Italian  "Walks"  and  "  Saun- 
terings,"  bring  us  down  from  the  supreme 
height  of  sympathetic  interest  by  going 
into  the  minutiae  of  the  solemn  absurdity 
of  the  decision  arrived  at  by  Church 
Courts.  To  wit :  that  Madonna  Ginevra 
Agolanti,  having  died  officially,  and  been 
interred  in  good  and  regular  order,  eccle- 
siastically, was  now  not,  henceforth,  and 
for  all  time.  Furthermore,  that  the  mar- 
riaofe-contract  between  her  and  Messer 
Francesco  Agolanti  was  legally  dissolved 
by  her  decease,  and  hereafter  not  binding 
upon  either  party.  This  decreed,  it  was 
no  concern  of  the  solemn  owl,  the  State 
Church,  what  happened  to  either  of  them, 
thereafter.  Messer  Francesco  was  free  to 
take  unto  himself  another  wife,  and  neither 
the  Holy  Father  of  Rome  nor  the  Signoria 
of  the  Florentine  Republic  had  jurisdic- 
tion over  a  ghost. 

To  us,  the  Perfect  Tale  is  rounded  to  a 
faultless  close  with  the  opening  of  that 


The  Ginevra  Tale 


i6i 


door ;  the  lifting-  of  the  helpless  woman 
from  the  threshold  of  Antonio  Rondi- 
nelli's  door,  in  his  strong  arms,  and  to  his 
faithful  bosom. 

"  And  it  was  all  true,  too,  here,  in  this 
Via  della  Morte  !  " 


X 

JOHN   KEATS   IN    ROME 


163 


X 

JOHN   KEATS  IN   ROME 

THE  Spanish  Steps  are  as  well  known 
to  the  tourist  in  Rome  as  St.  Peter's 
Church.  At  the  top  of  the  stately  flight 
is  the  Church  of  San  Trinita  del  Monte, 
her  twin  towers  rising  light  and  strong 
against  the  sky.  At  the  foot  is  the  Fon- 
tana  della  Barca,  a  landmark  of  great  and 
uncertain  age.  The  gentle  babble  of  the 
playing  waters,  unheard  a  dozen  paces 
away  when  the  fashionable  din  of  the  Pi- 
azza di  Spagna  is  at  its  loudest,  is  distinct 
to  the  nocturnal  lounger  upon  the  upper- 
most landing  of  the  stone  stairway. 

It  rises  in  broken,  musical  whispers  to 
the  open  window  of  a  second-story  front 
room  of  "the  first  house  on  the  right,  as 
you  ascend  the  steps  of  the  Trinity  del 
Monte." 

165 


1 66         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

This  was  Joseph  Severn's  description  of 
the  lodgings  hired  for  himself  and  his  in- 
valid friend  John  Keats,  by  an  English 
physician  resident  in  Rome.  The  two 
young  men  arrived  in  Rome  in  mid-No- 
vember, 1820.  After  the  first  week  of 
December  Keats  never  quitted  this  cham- 
ber. "  An  accursed  lodging-place,"  Severn 
calls  it  when  he  had  to  spend  his  last  crown 
to  save  his  dying  companion  from  eject- 
ment into  the  street.  "  If  he  dies,"  he  adds, 
"all  the  beds  and  furniture  will  be  burnt 
and  the  walls  scraped,  and  they  will  come 
on  me  for  a  hundred  crowns  or  more." 

Again,  he  inveighs  savagely  against 
"  this  comfortless  Italy,  this  wilderness  of 
a  place  for  an  invalid." 

The  lodging-place  is  not  comfortless  as 
we  see  it.  The  room  is  clean,  spacious 
and  well  furnished,  one  of  a  suite  occupied 
by  a  highly  respectable  family.  The  lo- 
cation is  airy  and  central,  and  far  more  ex- 
pensive now  than  when  it  was  let  to  the 
two  forestieri,  seventy-eight  winters  ago. 
It  is,  nevertheless,  easy  to  picture  it  as  dis- 
mally unhomelike  and  inadequate  to  the 


John  Keats  in  Rome  167 

necessities  of  tenants  accustomed  to  the 
comforts  of  their  native  England.  Decent 
furniture,  fire,  and  food  both  dainty  and 
nutritious,  were  to  be  had  in  the  Italy  of 
that  date  for  money,  and  there  were  enough 
English  residents  in  the  Eternal  City  to 
make  up  a  pleasant  circle  for  themselves. 
Keats  had  come  to  Rome,  "  his  last  place 
of  torture  and  of  rest,"  upon  borrowed 
money.  Severn,  an  artist  of  promise, — 
abundantly  fulfilled  in  after-life — had  re- 
ceived a  gold  medal  for  a  picture  exhibi- 
ted in  the  Royal  Academy,  and,  with  it, 
an  honorarium  in  value  sufficient  to  de- 
fray the  costs  of  three  years'  study  in  Italy. 
To  the  Circle  aforesaid  they  were  utterly 
unknown.  Besides  their  physician  and  his 
kind  wife,  who  sent  broths  and  jellies  to 
her  husband's  patient,  they  had  few  ac- 
quaintances, and  apparently  no  active 
friends  in  the  city. 

The  comrades  had  been  friends  for  seven 
years,  and,  since  the  setting-in  of  Keats's 
mortal  malady,  intimates.  Severn's  ad- 
miration of  Keats  as  the  embodiment  of 
the  artist's  "complete  idea  of  a  poet,"  and 


1 68         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

genuine  fondness  for  the  ardent,  wayward 
genius,  were  deepened  by  a  peculiar  ele- 
ment of  tenderness  in  the  nature  of  the 
stalwart  elder  of  the  twain — a  yearning 
over  hurt  and  helpless  things,  which  drew 
out  his  whole  soul  in  pity  for  the  unhappy 
boy.  For,  Keats,  small  of  stature  and 
delicate  of  feature,  with  glorious  eyes  that 
filled  with  tears,  and  sensitive  lips  that 
trembled  like  a  child's,  at  a  sudden  rush 
of  thought  or  emotion,  although  but  two 
years  Severn's  junior,  looked,  at  twenty- 
five,  a  mere  lad  beside  him. 

During  the  two  months  passed  by  them 
in  this  chamber,  the  duties  of  the  devoted 
attendant  were  manifold  and  incongruous. 
But  for  the  cheerful  heroism  of  his  affec- 
tion for  the  object  of  these  cares,  they 
would  have  irked  him  past  endurance. 
He  had  hoped  to  send  another  picture  to 
the  Academy  this  winter,  and  to  push  for- 
ward vigorously  the  studies  he  had  come 
to  Rome  to  prosecute.  His  easel  leaned 
idly  against  the  wall ;  palette,  brushes  and 
paints  were  not  unpacked.  He  was  Keats's 
nurse  by  day  and  his  sole  watcher  by  night. 


John  Keats  in  Rome  169 

Rising  in  the  raw  dawn  of  wintry  morn- 
ings, he  kindled  the  fire  and  always  pre- 
pared his  friend's  breakfast  with  his  own. 
Sometimes  he  cooked  all  their  meals  after 
buying  the  materials  for  the  same  ;  he 
made  beds,  and  swept  the  stone  floor ; 
"  sat  by  the  bedside  and  read  all  day,  and 
at  night  humoured  him  in  all  his  wander- 
ings," his  heart  aching  with  loving  com- 
passion that  left  no  room  for  complaint 
of  his  own  disappointment  and  privations. 

When  the  sick  man,  frenzied  by  fever 
and  nervous  irritability,  leaped  out  of  bed, 
declaring,  "  This  day  shall  be  my  last !  " 
the  guardian  gathered  him  in  his  strong 
arms,  as  he  might  lift  a  fretful  baby,  and 
laid  him  upon  the  pillows,  wiped  the  bright 
blood  from  the  poor,  white  lips,  and  petted 
and  soothed  him  into  comparative  quiet. 

On  February  14,  Severn  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Brawne  of  the  "  great  quietness  and  peace  " 
that  had  succeeded  the  fearful  unrest  of 
many  weeks. 

"It  seems  like  a  delightful  sleep  to  me. 
/  have  been  tossing  about  in  the  tempest  of 
his  77iind  for  so  lo7ig !  " 


I70         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

The  simple  phrase  holds  a  volume  of 
meaning,  a  depth  and  completeness  of  un- 
selfish sympathy,  such  as  is  given  to  few 
men  to  inspire,  or  to  feel. 

The  sovereign  commonwealth  of  read- 
ers and  the  oligarchy  of  reviewers  have, 
since  then,  done  full  credit  to  the  genius 
of  John  Keats.  From  the  day  he  left  his 
cradle  to  that  in  which  Joseph  Severn  laid 
to  rest  in  a  foreign  land  the  shattered 
frame  from  which  the  lungs  had  wasted 
entirely  away,  two  months  earlier,  he  had 
never  a  sane  mind  in  a  sane  body.  His 
biographers  throw  away  time  in  disputing 
whether  or  not  Byron  wrote  the  truth  in 
declaring  that  the  poet's  life  was  "  snuffed 
out  by  an  article."  His  brother's  summing 
up  of  the  lamentable  case  covered  more 
and  tenable  ground  : 

''Blackwood  and  The  Quarterly,  asso- 
ciated with  our  family  disease,  consump- 
tion, were  ministers  of  death  sufficiently 
venomous,  cruel,  and  deadly  to  have  con- 
signed one  of  less  sensibility  to  a  prema- 
ture grave." 

The  seeds  of  death  were  implanted  in 


John  Keats  in  Rome  17^ 

his  constitution  by  his  mother.  From  her 
he  drew,  also,  his  sensuous  temperament, 
his  intolerance  of  pain  and  the  capacity 
for  loving  and  suffering  with  fierce  unrea- 
son that  hurried  on  the  inevitable  end. 
*'  The  horrid  morbidity"  he  deplores  in  a 
rational  hour,  finally  ate  into  and  con- 
sumed his  heart.  How  much  of  this  was 
due  to  ill-health,  how  much  to  "venom- 
ous "  critics,  and  how  little  to  natural  lack 
of  balance  and  to  undisciplined  passion,  is 
a  nice  question  which,  it  seems  to  us,  is 
best  settled  by  his  latest  biographer,  Wil- 
liam Michael  Rossetti.  His  Life  of  Keats 
is  our  pocket  companion  in  the  silent  up- 
per chamber  where  torture  ceased,  and 
rest  began. 

Fanny  Brawne  was  a  poor  creature  upon 
which  to  stake  love  and  life,  and  Keats 
knew  this  to  be  true  in  the  lucid  intervals 
of  his  infatuation.  Rossetti  gives  the  key 
to  the  wretched  entanglement  in  two  judi- 
cial lines  : 

"He  was  in  a  state  of  feeling  propense 
to  love.  Some  woman  was  required  to  fill 
the  void  in  his  heart," 


172         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

For  a  while  after  her  Image  was  pro- 
jected upon  the  sensitised  surface,  he  could 
play  with  it  coolly.  In  a  letter  to  his 
brother,  he  catalogues  certain  physical 
traits  of  Miss  Brawne's,  as  "  good,"  others, 
"  tolerable,"  one  or  two  as  "  bad-ish." 
"  She  wants  sentiment  in  every  feature  "  ; 
as  to  mind,  she  is  "  ignorant,"  in  deport- 
ment, "  monstrous,"  and  "  a  minx."  Almost 
as  soon  as  this  letter  could  reach  Louis- 
ville, Kentucky,  where  the  George  Keatses 
lived,  the  lover  swears  to  his  frivolous 
divinity  : — "  From  the  very  first  week  I 
knew  you  I  wrote  myself  your  vassal,"  and 
"all  I  can  bring  you  is  a  swooning  admir- 
ation of  your  beauty." 

Naturally  suspicious,  and  made  more 
misanthropic  by  the  hidden  fires  of  his 
disease,  he  never  trusted  her  for  a  single 
hour.  He  had  read  her  too  well,  and  re- 
collected too  faithfully  the  many  evidences 
she  had  given  him  of  lightness  of  mind 
and  greed  of  admiration.  After  sickness 
made  him  prisoner  and  kept  him  absent 
from  her,  he  was  "  torn  by  ideas  of  her 
volatility,  and  fickleness,"  and  hated,  while 


John  Keats  in  Rome  173 

he  hugged,  his  chains.  Her  flirtations 
with  Charles  Armitage  Brown,  of  whom 
Keats  writes  at  this  very  time — "  I  know 
his  love  and  friendship  for  me  " — drove 
him  to  coarseness  of  accusation.  '*  I  see 
nothing  but  thorns  for  the  future,"  says 
the  last  letter  penned  to  Fanny  before  his 
journey  southward.  "  Wherever  I  may 
be  next  winter,  in  Italy — or  nowhere — 
Brown  will  be  living  near  you  with  his 
indecencies.  I  see  no  prospect  of  any  rest. 
Suppose  me  in  Rome.  I  should  there 
see  you,  as  in  a  magic  glass,  going  to  and 
from  town  at  all  hours 

"  I  wish  I  could  infuse  a  little  confidence 
of  human  nature  into  my  heart.  I  cannot 
muster  any.  The  world  is  too  brutal  for 
me.  I  am  glad  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
the  erave !  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  have 
any  rest  till  I  get  there.     .     .     . 

"  I  wish  I  was  either  in  your  arms,  full 
of  faith,  or  that  a  thunderbolt  would  strike 
me  dead  ! " 

If  anything  could  heighten  the  profound 
pity,  and  the  regret  that  nearly  trenches 
upon  repulsion  with  which  we  read  these 


174         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

ravings,  it  would  be  another  letter,  ad- 
dressed by  the  lover  when  actually  en 
voyage,  to  the  man  of  whose  "  indecencies  " 
he  had  complained  to  his  betrothed. 

"  I  think  " — run  the  sentences  dictated 
by  the  calm  sorrow  of  his  then  mood — 
"  for  my  sake,  you  would  be  a  friend  to 
Miss  Brawne  when  I  am  dead.  You  think 
she  has  many  faults.  For  my  sake  think 
she  has  not  one.  It  there  is  anything  you 
can  do  for  her  by  word  or  deed,  I  know 
you  will  do  it.     .     .     . 

"  The  thought  of  leaving  Miss  Brawne 
is  beyond  everything  horrible — the  sense 
of  darkness  coming  over  me — I  eternally 
see  her  figure,  eternally  vanishing.  Some 
of  the  phrases  she  was  in  the  habit  of 
using  during  my  last  nursing  in  Went- 
worth  Place "  (the  Brawnes'  home  in 
Hampstead)  "  ring  in  my  ears.  Is  there 
another  life  ?  Shall  I  awake  and  find  all 
this  a  dream  ?  There  must  be.  We  can- 
not be  created  for  this  sort  of  suffering. 
The  receiving  this  letter  is  to  be  one  of 
yours." 

A  passionate,  pessimistic  boy,  in  whom 


John  Keats  in  Rome         175 

earthly  suffering  was  never  to  work  out 
the  Divine  purpose,  or  to  yield  the  peace- 
able fruits  of  self-control  and  charity,  he 
fought  with  death  as  he  had  fought  with 
a  life  that  seemed  all  wrong  to  his  per- 
verted perceptions.  He  would  not  read 
Fanny  Brawne's  letters  when  Severn 
brought  them  to  his  bed.  A  glance  at  the 
last  that  reached  him  "tore  him  to  pieces." 
He  charged  Severn  to  see  that  it  was  put 
into  his  cofhn,  with  one  from  his  sister; 
then  countermanded  the  order,  so  far  as  it 
related  to  the  letter  from  his  betrothed. 

Days  of  "doubt  and  horror"  dragged 
on,  and  sleepless  nights,  during  which  the 
horrible  suffocation  that  threatened  death 
a  thousand  times  before  its  merciful  com- 
ing, obliged  him  to  have  the  windows 
open,  letting  in — as  we  reflect,  with  a 
a  fleeting  sense  of  thankfulness — the  plash 
and  tinkle  of  the  fountain  in  the  square 
below,  and  the  call,  "  Severn, — I  am  dy- 
ing ! "  hastened  the  faithful  watcher  to  his 
side.  For  the  last  time  the  strong  arms 
lifted  him  up. 

"  Don't   be  frightened !     Be    firm,  and 


176         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

thank  God  it  has  come ! "  are  the  words 
the  loving^  scribe  must  have  recorded  with 
more  than  gratitude — with  sorrowful  pride 
in  the  rally  of  whatever  was  brave  and 
manly  in  the  pitiful  wreck  that  went  to 
pieces  upon  his  constant  heart. 

So  close  to  our  window  that  we  could 
touch  it  by  leaning  over  the  sill  is  a  tab- 
let, in  the  outer  wall  of  the  house,  telling 
who  died  here,  and  when. 

"  In  a  room,"  says  a  fellow-student  with 
him  in  the  medical  college,  "  Keats  was  al- 
ways at  the  window  peering  out  into  space, 
and  it  was  customary  to  call  the  window- 
seat  '  Keats's  place.' " 

He  must  have  been  propped  in  his  chair 
often,  to  sit  at  the  casement  overlooking 
the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  on  the  sunny  days 
which,  we  hope,  were  many  in  the  winter 
of  1 820-1 82 1.  Severn  may  have  brought 
him  into  the  sunlight  in  his  arms  to  let 
him  "peer"  into  the  glad,  free  space  with- 
out his  prison,  or  at  midnight,  in  the  hope 
of  lesseninof  the  horrible  unrest  of  fever 
and  asphyxia  by  a  sight  of  the  "  patient 
stars 


John  Keats  in  Rome  177 

Who  climb  each  night  the  ancient  sky." 

We  pause  for  a  last  look  at  the  corner 
in  which  Keats's  bed  used  to  stand,  then 
go  silently  down  the  stairs  that  gave  back 
the  slow  echoes  of  the  bearers'  tread  when 
the  pitifully  light  weight  of  his  mortal  re- 
mains was  removed  for  their  long  rest. 

"  I  followed  his  dear  body  to  the  grave 
on  Monday,  February  26,"  wrote  Severn 
to  Fanny  Brawne's  mother.  "  The  letters 
I  placed  in  the  cofhn  with  my  own 
hand." 

The  order  to  keep  back  the  last  re- 
ceived from  Miss  Brawne  had  been  re- 
voked. Others,  also  unread,  received  from 
her  in  previous  weeks,  went  into  the  coffin 
with  it,  and  one  from  his  only  sister. 

"  I  long  to  believe  in  immortality,"  he 
had  told  his  betrothed,  "  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  bid  you  an  entire  farewell." 

And,  ao;ain — '*  I  wish  to  believe  in  im- 
mortality  !  I  wish  to  live  with  you  forever." 

We  can  imagine  that  the  pulseless  heart 
would  quicken  with  one  last  painful  throb 
as  the  unread  letters  were  laid  upon  it. 

In  our  thoughtful  drive  to  the  Protest- 


178         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

ant  Cemetery,  we  try  to  banish  the  recol- 
lection  of  the  story  that  Miss  Brawne  could 
speak,  in  after  years,  flippantly,  and  with 
patronising  compassion  more  dishonouring 
to  his  memory  than  open  ridicule — of 
"  John  Keats,  the  foolish  young  poet  who 
was  in  love  with  me." 

She  was,  moreover,  not  averse  to  the 
measure  of  distinction  that  fell  to  her  lot 
as  the  object  of  this  mad  folly,  after  read- 
ers and  reviewers  awoke  to  the  perception 
of  his  glorious  gifts,  and  the  loss  the  world 
had  sustained  when  his  life  flickered  out 
in  discomfort  and  despair.  Even  after  her 
marriage  to  another  man,  she  kept  Keats's 
letters.  She  had  never  understood  why 
he  shrank  from  talking  of  their  betrothal 
to  common  acquaintances  ;  his  resentment 
of  his  friends'  "  spying  upon  a  secret  I 
would  rather  die  than  share  with  anybody's 
confidence,"  was  silly,  and  even  unkind,  in 
her  estimation. 

"  Good  gods  ! "  he  breaks  out,  fiercely. 
"  What  a  shame  it  is  our  loves  should  be 
so  put  into  the  microscope  of  a  coterie  ! 
Their    '  laughs '    should   not    affect    you, 


John  Keats  in  Rome  179 

when  in  competition  with  one,  who,  if  he 
never  should  see  you  again,  would  make 
you  the  saint  of  his  memory." 

From  which,  and  other  expressions,  we 
learn  that  Miss  Brawne's  associates  had 
twitted  her  with  her  lover's  proud  reticence 
upon  the  theme  sacred  to  him,  and  any- 
thing but  sacred  to  her. 

"  That  is  arterial  blood  !  That  drop  is 
my  death-warrant ! "  was  his  verdict  at  sight 
of  his  first  hemorrhage. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  every  word  in 
these  terrible  love-letters.  Each  is  a  drop 
of  life-blood,  and  their  leap  from  the  an- 
guished heart  actually  appalls  us.  No 
eyes  but  hers  should  ever  have  rested  upon 
the  pages.  It  was  nothing  short  of  vivi- 
section for  her  to  turn  them  over  to  public 
examination  and  judgment.  And  this  was 
done,  in  effect,  by  her  preservation  of  them, 
aware  as  she  was,  what  use  would  be  made 
of  them  when  they  escaped  from  her  keep- 
ing. 

We  cannot,  and  we  do  not  care  to,  for- 
give her.  She  outlived  her  madly-mistaken 
lover  by  forty-four  years,  dying  in  peace- 


i8o         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

ful  respectability,  a  British  matron  of  years, 
in  1865. 

Long  before  that,  Endymion,  The  Pot  of 
Basil,  and  Lamia  took  their  eternal  place 
among  the  choicest  of  English  classics,  and 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  was  hung  in  the 
mental  galleries  of  scholarly  critics  as  the 
divinest  bit  of  word-painting  in  the  Eng- 
lish language.  The  movement  of  the  poem 
is  a  luxury  to  ear  and  imagination, — liquid 
melody, — "  a  delicate  transfusion  of  sight 
and  emotion  into  sound,"  Rossetti  says, 
aptly  and  eloquently.  "  The  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes  is,  par  excelleiice,  the  poem  of 
glamour." 

Glamour  that  holds  brain  and  senses  in 
delicious  captivity.  The  mere  repetition 
of  each  perfect  line  is  a  definite  delight  ; 
imagery  and  description  are  a  chaplet  of 
flawless  gems. 

**  Among  the  many  things  he  has  re- 
quested of  me  to-night  this  is  the  principal 
— that  on  his  grave  shall  be  this — '  Here 
lies  one  whose  name  is  writ  in  water,'  " — is 
an  entry  in  the  diary  Severn  sent  to  Mrs. 
Brawne. 


John  Keats  in  Rome  i8i 

In  obeying  the  harrowing  injunction, 
the  faithful  executor  prefaced  it  by  a  sen- 
tence that  shows  his  own  hot  sympathy 
with  the  hounded  poet : 

"  This  grave  contains  all  that  was  mor- 
tal of  a  young  English  poet,  who,  on  his 
death-bed,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  at 
the  malicious  power  of  his  enemies,  de- 
sired these  words  to  be  engraved  on 
his  tomb-stone  : — '  Hei^e  lies  one  whose 
name  was  writ  in  water'  February  24, 
1821." 

It  was  in  a  gentler  mood,  perhaps  in  the 
"  great  quietness  and  peace  "  that  fell  upon 
him  in  the  last  week  of  his  life,  like  a  pre- 
sage of  the  everlasting  rest,  that  he  whis- 
pered one  night  when  Severn  thought  him 
asleep, — "/  feel  the  daisies  growing  over 
me  ! 

They  lift  their  innocent  eyes  to  ours 
from  his  breast,  and  overrun  the  turf  on 
all  sides.  Shelley  had  seen  them  before 
he  wrote  in  the  Adonais  which  is  an  im- 
mortal tribute  to  his  dead  friend  : 

"  Pass,  till  the  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access, 


1 82  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

Where,  like  an  infant's  smile  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is 
spread." 

It  is  not  possible  to  pause  at  this  point 
in  the  repetition  of  the  exquisite  lines, 
when  we  say  them,  here  and  thus  : 

"  And  gray  walls  moulder  round  on  which  dull 

Time 
Feeds,  like  a  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand  ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid,  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand. 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble  ;  and  beneath 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of 

death. 
Welcoming  him  we  love  with  scarce  extinguished 

breath." 

Hardy  English  ivies,  lush  from  the 
warmth  of  southern  soil,  bind  the  grave 
of  Keats  to  that  of  his  leal,  heroic  friend, 
Joseph  Severn,  who  rejoined  him  in  1879. 

Shelley's  heart,  plucked,  unconsumed, 
from  his  ashes,  by  Trelawney,  after  the 
cremation  at  Spezzia,  was  brought  to 
Rome  and  buried  in  the  newer  cemetery 
of  which  the  city  wall  is  the  boundary.  Tre- 
lawney, his  henchman,  parasite,  and  biog- 


John  Keats  in  Rome         183 

rapher,  was,  at  his  especial  and  most  charac- 
teristic request,  laid  beside  Shelley's  tomb. 

There  had  been  some  talk  of  Keats's 
wintering  with  the  Shelleys  at  Pisa,  and, 
after  the  project  was  given  up,  Shelley 
had  still  the  kindly  intention  "  to  be  the 
physician  both  of  his  body  and  of  his 
soul — to  keep  the  one  warm,  and  to  teach 
the  other  Greek  and  Spanish." 

Violets  spread  a  purple  pall  over  Shel- 
ley's heart ;  rose-thickets,  full  of  bursting 
buds,  cast  wavering  shadows  upon  the 
"  Cor  Cordiuni "  of  his  memorial-stone. 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  one  in  love  with 
death  to  think  of  sleeping  in  so  sweet  a 
spot," — he  had  said,  with  no  prevision  of 
what   we  are  looking  upon,   now. 

"  The  weariness,  the  fever  and  the  fret, 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan, 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
Where   youth  grows  pale  and  spectre-dim,  and 
dies — ' 

— are  over,  and  forever,  for  them  both, 
thank  God  !  and  in  the  world  that  sets 
this  right. 

'Keats's  Ode  to  a  Nightingale. 


XII. 
TOLD  ON  THE  LAGOON. 


185 


XI. 
TOLD  ON  THE  LAGOON. 

A  SMALL  steamer  runs — or  creeps — 
to  Torcello  three  times  a  week.  It 
churns  up  the  stagnant  water  of  the 
shallow  inlets,  thrust  like  sickly  fingers 
into  the  salt  marshes  of  the  lonely  island, 
and  is  moored  against  the  blackish  rocks 
abutting  what  was  once  a  broad  and  busy 
square.  It  is  now  a  meadow,  dotted,  in 
the  springtime,  with  the  white  starry 
flower  we  call,  in  our  home  across  the  sea, 
the  "  Star-of-Bethlehem." 

Beyond  the  meadow  is  a  group  of  build- 
ings, partly  in  ruins.  The  little  church 
dedicated  to  Santa  Fosca,  was  built  more 
than  twelve  hundred  years  ago,  by  the 
fugitives  from  Altinum,  after  the  burning 
of  their  town  by  the  Lombards.  Landing 
upon  the  island  of  Torcello,  they  founded 
187 


1 88  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

there  a  veritable  city  of  refuge.  To  the 
same  date  belongs  the  Campanile  which 
first  catches  the  eyes  strained  across  the 
lagoon  for  a  sight  of  the  clustered  ruins 
and  the  Cathedral,  post-dating  them  by 
two  centuries. 

The  pivotal  point  of  the  story  to  which 
we  listen  in  our  seven-mile  voyage,  is  this 
Cathedral,  erected — as  nearly  as  can  be 
estimated,  by  consulting  the  confused 
chronological  tables  of  those  early  days — 
about  1040.  The  foundations  were  laid 
in  those  of  an  earlier  church,  the  work  of 
the  Altinese. 

Shrinking  from  the  prospect  of  seeing 
Torcello — ''  sui  generis  for  simplicity  and 
solitude  " — in  company  with  a  horde  of 
chattering  "  trippers,"  we  have  hired  a 
gondola  to  take  us  thither.  The  lagoon 
just  breathes,  and  in  slow,  leisurely  heav- 
ings,  under  the  clear  gray  heavens  re- 
flected in  its  bosom.  There  is  no  glare, 
and  the  gentle  stir  of  the  air  saves  the  day 
from  sultriness ;  there  is  not  another  gon- 
dola within  speaking  distance.  Behind  us 
is  Venice,  gradually  losing  outline  and  col- 


Told  on  the  Lagoon  189 

our  in  blending  with  the  pearl-gray  hori- 
zon. 

"  Beautiful  Venice,  Bride  of  the  Sea  !  " 

A  girl,  who  must  have  learned  the  old, 
old  ballad  from  her  grandmother's  music- 
books,  was  singing  it  in  a  flexible  mezzo- 
soprano  on  the  Lagoon  last  night,  under 
the  full  moon.  Other  voices  made  the 
chorus  a  part-song.  The  mellow  har- 
monies are  with  us  still : 

"  Beautiful  Venice  !     City  of  Song  ! 
What  wonders  of  old  to  thy  regions  belong  ! 
What  sweet  recollections  cling  to  my  heart 
As  thy  fast-fading  shores  from  my  vision  depart. 
Oh,  Poesy's  home  is  thy  light  colonnade 

Where  the  winds  gently  sigh  and  the  sweet  twi- 
lights fade. 
I  have  known  many  homes,  but  the  dwelling  for 
me 
Is  Beautiful  Venice,  the  Bride  of  the  Sea  !  " 

The  ripple  and  languorous  swing  of  the 
melody  must  have  been  thought  out  by 
the  composer  on  such  a  night,  and  under 
such  a  moon,  and  upon  such  waters  as  re- 
called it  to  the  girl  with  the  sympathetic 
mezzo-soprano  voice.     All  unwittingly  she 


iQO         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

made  us  her  grateful  debtors.  The  words 
are  not  poetry  ;  the  air  is  not  music.  Yet 
we  account  it  of  more  value  than  a  hundred 
modern  canzoncttas  and  barcaroles. 

The  retrospective  murmur  of  the  re- 
frain is  the  prelude  to  our  Story. 

It  begins  in  the  bewitching  old  way — 
Once  upon  a  Time.  The  Once  and  the 
Time  are  as  worn  and  discoloured  by  the 
wash  of  centuries  as  the  rocks  of  the  ru- 
ined quay,  but  as  firm  as  the  piles  driven 
into  the  heart  of  the  earth  and  upbearing 
the  Campanile,  Duomo  and  Baptistery  of 
the  waste  Island  City. 

In  that  Once  of  the  thousand-year-old 
Time,  Orseoli,  Doge  of  Venice,  wrought 
for  her  fame  and  power  exceeding  all  that 
his  predecessors  had  gained.  Under  his 
leadership  the  Bride  of  the  Adriatic  be- 
came the  Queen  of  every  sea  ploughed  by 
her  victorious  galleys,  and  their  range 
comprised  all  of  the  known  world.  Kings 
came  bending  unto  her,  and  those  who 
had  despised  her  youth  and  poverty, 
bowed  at  her  white  feet,  and  all  men 
spoke  well  of  her  greatest   Captain  and 


Told  on  the  Lagoon         191 

wisest  ruler.  Heaven  had  set  the  seal  of 
Divine  favor  upon  his  works  and  ways  by 
giving  him  a  large  family  of  noble  sons 
and  virtuous  daughters.  The  heir  appar- 
ent, Giovanni,  a  brave  and  accomplished 
youth,  was  invited  to  Constantinople  by 
the  Emperors,  Basil  and  Constantine,  and 
was  there  married  to  one  of  the  Royal 
house.  After  he  brought  her  to  Venice 
"  with  great  pomp  and  festivity,"  he  was 
associated  with  his  father  in  the  gfovern- 
ment  of  the  State,  an  appointment  that 
made  yet  more  stable  the  throne  estab- 
lished upon  the  seas,  and  apparently  as 
stable  as  the  girdle  of  snow-topped  Alps 
bounding  the  north-western  horizon  of  the 
Great  Republic. 

Next  to  Giovanni  among  the  Doge's 
sons,  stood  Orso,  the  scholar /^r  eminence 
in  a  household  where  all  were  emulous  in 
learning,  and  patrons  of  the  fine  arts.  His 
choice  of  the  priesthood  as  a  sphere  for  his 
talents  and  ambitions,  was  not  opposed  by 
the  father.  He  had,  besides  Giovanni,  an- 
other son.  Otto,  to  make  the  succession 
sure,  even  after  the  youngest,  Vitale,  had 


192         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

also  gone  into  holy  orders,  and  a  daugh- 
ter, for  whom  the  Emperor  Otto  11.  had 
stood  godfather  in  San  Marco,  determined 
to  take  the  veil.  The  Church  was  the 
twin  of  the  State  in  dignity  and  authority. 
When  Orso  was  made  Bishop  of  the  isl- 
and-parish of  Torcello — the  Torcello  ac- 
knowledged and  revered  as  the  Mother  of 
Venice — the  Doge  smiled,  well-pleased, 
upon  the  zeal  with  which  the  new  incum- 
bent set  about  rebuilding  her  Cathedral  in 
a  style  so  far  surpassing  its  earlier  estate 
that  nothing  in  Venice  approached  it  in 
design  and  execution.  Had  the  veined 
marble  pillars,  combining  with  Corinthian 
capitals  reminiscences  of  the  Byzantium 
that  was  ever  the  loving  ally  of  the  Orse- 
oli  ;  the  exquisitely  wrought  rood-screen, 
copied,  in  part,  by  the  architects  of  San 
Marco,  dividing  the  choir  from  the  body  of 
the  church,  and  the  Episcopal  throne,  or 
Bishop's  Seat,  commanding  the  whole  in- 
terior, been  the  work  of  Orso's  own  hands, 
he  could  have  left  us  no  more  definite  ex- 
pression of  his  mind,  character,  and  tastes. 
All  is  noble,  pure,  and  elevated.     In  the 


Told  on  the  Lagoon         193 

minutest  detail  we  discern  the  singleness 
of  devotion  to  his  high  calling  and  to  his 
diocese  which  changed  desolation  into  a 
miracle  of  beauty. 

About  the  Cathedral  group  sprang  up 
and  flourished  a  miniature  realm  informed 
by  his  energy  and  refinement. 

"  Behind  the  high  altar,  on  the  Bishop's 
high  cold  throne  overlooking  the  great  tem- 
ple, he  sat  among  his  presbyters  and  con- 
trolled the  counsels  and  led  the  decisions 
of  a  community  then  active  and  wealthy," 
says  a  careful  chronicler. 

While  Torcello,  thus  transformed,  was 
to  him  wife,  child,  and  kingdom,  his  inter- 
course with  father  and  brothers  was  always 
close  and  tender.  The  old  Doge  took 
counsel  with  this,  his  gravest  and  most  ju- 
dicious son,  in  affairs  of  state.  When  the 
plague  fell,  like  a  black  frost  from  heaven, 
upon  prosperous  Venice,  blighting,  among 
the  first  victims,  Giovanni,  his  wife  and 
their  baby-boy,  Orso's  strong  heart  was  his 
father's  stay  ;  his  clear  brain  was  ready 
with    a   measure    that   should  effectually 

avert  the  calamity  of  panic  and  anarchy. 
13 


194         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

Otto,  the  Doge's  third  son,  was  the 
protcgd  oi  Otto  II.,  whose  visit,  incognito, 
to  Pietro  Orseoli,  the  great  Doge,  is  one 
of  the  romantic  incidents  of  Venetian  his- 
tory. As  a  boy,  he  had  been  solemnly 
sent  to  Verona  for  confirmation,  the  Em- 
peror, on  that  occasion,  exchanging  the 
child's  name  of  "  Pietro  "  for  the  Emper- 
or's own,  "  in  sign  of  high  favour  and  affec- 
tion." After  this,  the  lad  spent  much  of  his 
time  at  Court,  and  before  he  was  twenty, 
married  a  Hungarian  princess.  The  an- 
nalists of  this  period  exhaust  their  store 
of  adjectival  epithets  in  praise  of  his  gifts 
of  person,  intellect,  and  heart.  He  was 
"  Catholic  in  faith,  strong  in  justice,  emi- 
nent in  religion,  decorous  in  his  way  of 
living,  great  in  riches,  and  so  full  of  all 
kinds  of  goodness  that,  by  his  merits,  he 
was  judged  of  all  to  be  the  most  fit  successor 
of  his  excellent  father  and  blessed  grand- 
father,"— is  the  tribute  of  one  historian. 

Otto  was  but  a  lad — hardly  eighteen, 
according  to  some  authorities — when  Gio- 
vanni, his  princess-bride,  and  their  infant 
heir,  were  swept  away  at  one  breath  of 


Told  on  the  Lagoon  195 

the  destroyer.  Orso,  whose  especial  pupil 
and  darling  the  younger  brother  was,  was 
audacious  in  recommending  that  he  should 
share  their  father's  authority,  but  he  knew 
Otto,  and,  it  may  be,  was  as  well  advised 
as  to  his  own  personal  influence  in  Venice. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  a  perilous  eminence 
on  which  the  young  fellow  was  left  alone 
by  his  father's  death.  This  occurred 
within  a  couple  of  years  after  that  of 
Giovanni,  and  the  Venetians,  kept  quiet 
by  the  munificent  bequest  of  the  late  Doge 
of  one  half  of  his  fortune,  "  for  the  use 
and  solace  of  all  the  poor  in  the  Republic," 
yielded  what  looked  like  willing  obedience 
to  his  successor  for  fifteen  years.  In  all 
this  time,  his  intimacy  with,  and  depend- 
ence upon,  Orso,  were  so  evident  that 
they  seemed  to  rule  as  one  man.  Orso 
was  now  Patriarch  of  Grado,  the  highest 
preferment  in  the  gift  of  the  Church.  The 
Orseoli  virtually  owned  the  Republic,  and 
there  were  hundreds  of  men  as  ambitious, 
if  less  worthy,  who  envied  them  with  all 
the  rancor  of  disappointed  politicians  and 
ecclesiastical  aspirants. 


196         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

The  terrible  truth  that  trouble  came 
first  to  Otto  through  an  attack  upon  him- 
self, seems  never  to  have  been  absent  from 
Orso's  memory  from  the  beginning  of 
their  reverses.  The  Doge  had  ruled  with 
exemplary  moderation ;  had  been  saga- 
cious in  counsel  and  intrepid  in  military 
and  naval  movements,  and  remained  sin- 
gularly unspoiled  by  the  honors  crowded 
and  packed  upon  him  from  his  childhood 
up.  The  machinery  of  government,  or- 
dained and  regulated  by  his  father,  had 
worked  so  well  and  so  lono-  that  we  are 
startled  by  the  jar  that  threw  it  out  of 
balance.  A  rival  and  belligerent  Patri- 
arch, Poppo  of  Aquileia,  after  cunningly 
undermining  the  influence  of  both  broth- 
ers among  the  easily-stirred  populace, 
boldly  accused  Orso  to  the  Pope  as  one 
who  had  been  illegally  appointed  to  his 
high  office,  and  was  a  wilful  accessory  in 
the  unlawful  act.  The  Venetians  had 
taken  too  much  for  granted  in  their  at- 
tachment to  the  intriguing  and  powerful 
Orseoli.  The  good  of  the  Church  and 
the  integrity  of  the  State,  so  long  dom- 


Told  on  the  Lagoon         197 

inated  by  the  lordly  race,  demanded  in- 
vestigation into,  and  summary  righting  of, 
this  and  divers  other  wrongs. 

A  popular  tumult  was  incited  by  the 
crafty  insinuations.  To  accuse  Orso  was 
to  involve  Otto,  and  he  would  not  be 
likely  to  listen  calmly  to  aspersions  of  his 
best-beloved  brother.  "  Great  discord  be- 
tween the  Venetians  and  the  Doge,"  was 
the  inevitable  consequence  of  the  at- 
tempted investigation.  In  breathless  suc- 
cession ensued  Orso's  resignation  of  the 
Patriarchate,  and  Otto's  abdication  of  the 
office  of  Doge.  Indignant  at  the  ingrati- 
tude of  those  who  owed  their  house  so 
much,  they  did  not  wait  to  be  tried  or  de- 
posed. Withdrawing  voluntarily  from  the 
scene  of  violent  disquiet,  they  retired  to 
Istria,  and  left  Venice  to  her  fate. 

The  panic  and  anarchy  warded  off  by 
Otto's  appointment  to  the  place  vacated 
by  Giovanni's  death,  swooped  down  upon 
the  ungoverned  city,  breeding  such  ex- 
tremity of  misery  that  a  piteous  recall  was 
sent  to  the  self-expatriated  pair  within  a 
twelvemonth  after  their  departure.    Poppo 


198  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

had  gained  possession  of  Grado  by  pro- 
mises of  peaceful  protection  of  the  citi- 
zens, and,  once  in,  sacked  and  insulted  her 
as  a  conqueror.  Otto  was  recalled  in  hot, 
repentant  haste,  put  the  invaders  to  flight, 
and  re-entered  Venice  in  calm  triumph. 

The  work  of  restoration  was  not  thor- 
ough for  some  reason  that  is  lost  to  us  in 
the  mingling  dust  of  the  ages.  Orso's 
rehabilitation  was  cleaner  and  closer  build- 
ing than  Otto's  resumption  of  sovereignty. 
His  stirred  nest  was  unskilfully  relaid. 
He  may  have  been  deficient  in  the  discre- 
tion that  waits  upon  advance  in  years,  or 
the  lesson  of  magnanimity  he  might  have 
learned  from  his  elder  brother,  may  have 
been  imperfectly  conned.  The  fever  of 
popular  reactionary  enthusiasm,  remitted 
when  the  system  was  reduced  by  blood- 
letting and  famine,  arose  again  before 
Otto  was  fairly  re-established  in  his  father's 
seat.  His  second  exile  was  flight,  and  a 
necessity.  Orso  was  again  his  companion, 
and,  as  before,  of  his  own  free  will.  Hav- 
ing remained  with  his  brother  until  he 
was  safe,  and  hospitably  lodged  in  Con- 


Told  on  the  Lagoon  199 

stantinople,  the  brave  priest  returned  to 
Venice,  and  gave  himself  resolutely  to  the 
work  of  clearing  Otto's  dear  name  from 
obloquy,  and  bringing  back  the  distracted 
dupes  of  designing  traitors  to  allegiance 
to  their  rightful  ruler. 

Through  one  revolution,  and  yet  another, 
and  another,  he  never  relaxed  his  inten- 
tion. It  may  well  be  conceived  how  loath- 
some to  a  man  of  clean  life  and  scholarly 
tastes,  must  have  been  the  contact  with 
the  elements  that  fought  against  him. 
Standing  deep  in  the  muck  of  Venetian 
politics,  his  soul  must  have  yearned  un- 
speakably for  peace  and  Torcello  ;  for  the 
pastoral  simplicity  of  the  life  he  had  put 
behind  him,  the  trustful  affection  of  the 
flock  he  had  led  and  fed  like  a  shep- 
herd. 

Whether  or  not  his  sacrifices  and  their 
end  were  comprehended  by  the  Venetians, 
and  his  lofty  patriotism  moved  them  to 
shame,  we  cannot  say.  Their  first  token 
of  a  saner  mood  was  in  the  earnest,  even 
abject,  petition  to  him  to  accept  the 
Doge's  place  and  name,  and  to  hold  it  in 


200         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

trust  until  an  embassy  could  be  sent  to 
bring  Otto  home. 

Venice  never  did  a  wiser  thing  than 
in  inducting  the  Patriarch  Orso  into  the 
office  his  grandfather,  father,  and  brother 
had  filled  in  the  best  days  of  the  mighty 
Republic.  Trained  to  statecraft  in  these 
successive  administrations,  early  admitted 
to  the  honour  of  consultation  with  Pietro 
Orseoli,  and  acting,  for  years,  as  Otto's 
unofficial  counsellor,  while  he  combined 
in  himself  the  finest  qualities  of  his  pre- 
decessors— he  was  able  to  lay  upon  the 
helm  a  hand  that  brought  the  ship  of 
State  out  of  the  tempest  and  into  such 
calm  waters  as  she  had  not  known  through 
many  a  dark  and  cloudy  day.  Born  to 
the  purple,  he  proved  to  be  a  leader  born, 
and  not  made  by  the  exigencies  of  the 
national  crisis. 

To  Vitale,  the  youngest  of  the  four 
brothers,  was  committed  the  grateful  task 
of  heading  the  embassy  to  Constantinople 
and  of  conducting  the  exile  in  honour  to 
home  and  people.  It  was  a  long  voyage, 
and  the  trusty  galleys,  at  their  best,  lagged 


Told  on  the  Lagoon         201 

far  behind  the  eager  flight  of  Orso's  de- 
sires to  see  the  cidmination  of  his  holy- 
emprise.  I  think  no  man,  since  the  corner- 
stone of  human  history  was  laid,  ever 
knew  purer  exultation  of  hope  than  must 
have  sprung  eternal  in  his  brother-heart 
through  that  year  of  waiting  and  working 
and  watching. 

Presently — for  we  are  nearing  the  island 
— we  will  climb  to  the  top  of  the  rude 
Campanile  he  had  left  as  it  was  when  he 
rebuilt  the  Duomo,  and  look — as  tradition 
says  and,  we  doubt  not,  truly,  he  was 
wont  to  gaze,  whenever  he  could  escape 
from  Venice  and  State  cares — over  "the 
paleness  and  the  roar  of  the  Adriatic," 
sweeping  the  shifting  distances  with  eyes 
full  of  fond  anticipation,  and  faint  with 
longing.  How  often  he  dreamed  over 
the  meeting  that  would  follow  upon  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  masts  and  sails  of  the 
homeward-bound  fleet,  we  shall  not  trust 
ourselves  to  think  in  the  knowledge  of 
what  the  end  of  labour  and  dreaming  was 
to  be. 

As  happily  and  as  hopefully  he  beheld 


202         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

the  increasing  weakh  and  tranquillity  of  the 
realm  he  would  resign  into  Otto's  hands 
in  the  fulness  of  God's  time.  Every 
evil  overcome,  every  success  achieved, 
was  one  more  love-gift  for  the  boy,  dearer 
than  life  and  fame,  and  than  Torcello 
itself,  to  the  man  who  would  never  hold 
son  of  his  own  in  his  arms. 

The  fleet  came  home. 

Let  us  tell  the  rest  briefly. 

Otto  was  dead  in  exile.  He  had  never 
known  that  Orso  was  making  and  keep- 
ing his  rightful  place  for  him,  much  less 
how  well  the  work  was  done,  or  in  what 
sublimity  of  love  and  faith  he  had  awaited 
the  hour  when  his  best-beloved  should 
have  his  own  again. 

The  sharp  prow  of  our  gondola  pushes 
aside  the  branches  of  flowering  "  May," 
— the  sweet  English  hawthorn,  lining  the 
inlet  we  have  entered — and  cuts  into  the 
sedges  drooping  and  dripping  in  the  dead 
water  about  the  landing-place.  The  island 
is  as  flat  as  a  table-top,  and  little  above 
the  wash  of  the  tide.  The  cluster  of 
church-buildings  stands  in  a  grassy  square. 


Told  on  the  Lagoon         203 

The  surrounding  meadows  are  whitened 
by  the  Bethlehem  stars.  A  few  mean 
cottages  dot  them,  the  homes  of  the  hun- 
dred-and-fifty  farm-labourers  who  till  the 
fields  they  do  not  own.  The  Mother  of 
Venice  sits,  a  Madonna  Dolorosa  to  the 
pitying  few  who  come  to  muse  upon  what 
she  was  to  him  who  loved  her  best,  and 
who  took  refuge  here  when  his  beautiful 
hope  died  a  violent  death. 

From  the  Campanile  we  turn  our 
thoughtful  steps  to  his  tomb  in  front  of 
the  high  altar.  Upon  it  is  his  effigy,  in 
strong  basso-relievo.  The  Patriarch's  mi- 
tre is  upon  his  head. 

Did  the  peace  stamped  upon  the  face, 
worn  with  thought  and  time,  settle  there 
with  the  death-shadow  ?  or  did  the  gentle 
monotony  of  his  priestly  functions,  the  so- 
ciety of  his  brother  in  faith  and  in  blood, 
who  succeeded  him  in  the  Bishopric  of 
Torcello,  and  his  sister  the  Lady  Abbess, 
"  with  perhaps  a  humbler  nun  or  two  of 
the  same  blood  " — like  the  stroke  of  mes- 
meric finger-tips  over  tortured  nerves, 
finally  assuage  the  sharpness  of  his  pain. 


204         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

and  soften  the  memory  of  the  murder  of 
the  beautiful  hope  ?  And  so  did  Torcello 
begin  to  be  for  his  comfort  ? 

There  is  no  inscription  upon  the  memo- 
rial-slab. We  could  not  bring  ourselves 
to  read  it  if  there  were.  That  his  end 
was  peace,  and  that  his  memory  was 
blessed  with  those  who  laid  him  here,  full 
of  years  and  honours,  we  already  know. 
Before  we  set  foot  in  his  island  bishopric, 
we  had  settled  within  ourselves  what 
words  would  have  been  graven  here,  had 
the  beautiful  hope  lived  and  not  perished, 
and  Otto  the  Doge  closed  the  Patriarch 
Orso's  eyes  for  his  last  sleep : 

"  Thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful,  passing 
the  love  of  wonie7i." 


XII 
IN  RAVENNA 


t05 


XII 
IN   RAVENNA 

WE  run  down  from  Bologna  to  Ra- 
venna by  rail.  The  track  is  laid 
along  the  line  of  a  Roman  road  constructed 
before  the  Christian  era.  The  landscape 
is  placid  in  beauty,  although  monotonous. 
The  May  haying  is  in  progress  ;  mowers 
stand  waist-deep  in  millet  and  barley  and 
in  clover  that  is  tipped  with  purple  spikes 
instead  of  bobbing  pink  heads ;  the  bare- 
footed women  raking  the  swaths  into  heaps 
are  picturesque  in  red  jackets  and  orange- 
coloured  petticoats.  Each  field  is  separated 
from  the  rest  by  what  we  name  "  one-legged 
dancers," — pollarded  mulberry-  and  fig- 
trees,  joined  by  festoons  of  vines,  vibrat- 
ing in  the  gentle  breeze  that  shows  the 
lining  of  flaming  poppies  under  the 
ruffled  skirts  of  the  standing  grain.  A 
207 


2o8         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

scarlet  bindino-  of  the  same  follows  the 
road-bed,  and  the  wide  picture  of  peace 
and  plenteousness  has  a  frame  of 
mountains,  benignant  in  outline,  rich  in 
tint  and  shading. 

At  long  intervals  the  white  walls  of  a 
villa  and  a  cluster  of  grey  farm-buildings 
break  up  the  green  uniformity  of  the 
distances,  near  and  remote  ;  or  the  train 
halts  at  a  chateau  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
now  a  railway  station,  or  a  town  that  was 
the  birthplace  of  an  archbishop  who  died 
about  490  A.D.  and  of  a  painter  who  saw 
the  light  two  years  after  Columbus  discov- 
ered America,  and  cannot,  therefore,  be 
numbered  with  the  ancients. 

The  sun-filled  air  is  as  delicious  to  the 
lungs  as  the  harmonious  wealth  of  colour 
to  the  sight.  Verdure  and  mountain-range, 
sunlight,  and  the  atmosphere  cooled  by 
wanderinor  breaths  from  the  sea  we  are 
nearing,  and  from  snow-caps,  of  which  we 
get  furtive  glimpses  between  lower  peaks, 
— were  the  same  when  Dante  trod  his 
lonely  way  from  Bologna  in  13 19,  and 
when  Byron  travelled  by  post-chaise  over 


In  Ravenna  209 

this  very  route  in  the  month  of  June,  1819. 

The  house  in  which  he  took  up  his 
abode  upon  his  arrival  in  Ravenna  is  one  of 
the  show-places  of  the  town.  Our  cabman 
drives  us  from  the  station,  first,  to  the 
Martyr's  Monument,  erected  in  1888  to 
the  memory  of  Garibaldi's  wife  Anita,  who 
died  in  1849,  with  her  unborn  child,  of 
hardships  and  exposure  while  hiding  in  the 
Ravenna  marshes  from  those  who  sought 
her  husband's  life.  Next,  we  are  taken 
to  the  Cathedral,  rebuilt  in  the  eighteenth 
century  upon  the  foundations  of  a  church 
older  than  itself  by  twelve  hundred  years. 
Thirdly,  we  go  to  the  Casa  di  Lord  Byron. 

It  is  now  a  cafe,  bearing  (of  course)  his 
name,  and,  to  suit  the  requirements  of  the 
present  occupants,  the  interior  has  been 
materially  altered.  Externally,  it  remains 
as  it  was  seventy-odd  years  ago.  It  is  two- 
storied,  of  fair  dimensions,  and  perfectly 
plain  in  architecture ;  the  stone  walls  are 
coated  with  the  buff  stucco  which  is  the 
livery  of  two-thirds  of  the  private  houses 
and  most  of  the  hotels  in  Italy.  The 
arched  doorway  is  the  same  from  which 


2IO         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

the  handsome  English  aristocrat  emerged 
daily  for  his  lounge  through  the  quaint, 
shadowy  streets,  or  his  gallop  in  the 
Pineta,  and  sallied  forth  duly  after  supper 
for  the  evening  call  upon  the  Countess 
Guiccioli,  never  omitted  in  the  stormiest 
weather.  The  common  people  of  Ravenna 
used  to  nudge  one  another  as  Dante 
passed,  and  whisper  to  their  children  that 
the  stranger  with  the  swarthy  skin  and 
rapt  eyes  came  and  went  to  hell  when- 
ever he  pleased  to  make  the  journey. 
The  haughty  beauty  and  exclusive  habits 
of  the  foreign  lord  who  had  chosen,  for  no 
reason  that  they  could  divine,  a  residence 
in  their  out-of-the-way  city,  must  have 
moved  the  bourgeois  gossips  to  conjectures 
as  absurd,  until  the  secret  of  the  magnet 
that  kept  him  here  became  public  property. 

"  Lord  Byron  preferred  Ravenna  to  all 
the  other  towns  of  Italy,  and  was  influenced 
in  some  measure  by  his  intimacy  with  the 
Countess  Guiccioli,  a  member  of  the 
Gamba  family  of  Ravenna,"  says  Bae- 
deker, primly,  and  lets  the  story  pass. 

The  said  "member"  of  a  noble  house 


BYRON'S    HOUSE    IN    RAVENNA. 


In  Ravenna  211 

did  not  acquiesce  in  the  disposition  of 
charitable  ciceroni  to  smooth  out  one  of 
the  ugHest  creases  in  a  Hfe  that  was  badly 
"  laundered  "  throughout.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  calls  attention  peremptorily  to 
the  length  and  breadth  and  depth  of  the 
social  blemish  by  means  of  two  ponderous 
volumes,  penned  ostensibly — and  osten- 
tatiously— by  her  own  hand  in  wordy 
Italian,  and  done  into  English  by  an  ab- 
normally patient  translator.  The  work  is 
incorrigibly  stupid,  and  inconceivably 
moralistic,  when  one  considers  who  was 
the  author  and  who  the  subject  of  the 
memoir.  Skipping  as  lightly  as  the  heavi- 
ness of  the  soil  will  allow,  over  the  chap- 
ters devoted  to  Lord  Byron's  constancy, 
his  lofty  sense  of  honour,  his  religious  con- 
victions, his  marital  magnanimity,  and  his 
filial  piety,  we  extract  from  the  account  of 
his  life  in  Ravenna  certain  details  which 
further  the  purpose  we  had  in  visiting 
the  sad  and  hoary  town. 

The  book  is  opened  upon  our  luncheon- 
table  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Hotel 
Lord  Byron,  hard  by  Casa  and  cafe.     It 


2  12         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

is  a  cheerful,  commodious  little  caravan- 
sery,  flanked  by  a  garden  gay  with  roses, 
jasmine,  honeysuckle,  and  azaleas.  Out  of 
a  gorgeous  tangle  of  these  rises  a  fine 
marble  bust  of  Byron,  taken — as  we 
would  fain  depict  him  to  ourselves,  even 
here,    if   we    could — at  his  best. 

"  The  Countess  G ,"  as  she  deli- 
cately designates  herself,  writes  modestly 
in  the  third  person  and  makes  it  plain, 
unintentionally  and  unconsciously,  that 
other  attractions  besides  hers  had  part  in 
bringing  Byron  to  Ravenna,  if  not  in 
detaining  him  here. 

He  had  been  an  inmate  of  No.  225 
Strada  di  Porta  Sisi  for  some  weeks  be- 
fore he  became  intimate  with  the  inmates 
of  the  Palazzo  Guiccioli,  Via  di  Porta 
Adriana.  What  followed  we  give  in  the 
titled  author's  own  words  : 

"He   was   requested  by  Count  G 

to  accompany  his  young  wife  into  society, 
to  the  play,  everywhere  in  short.  Soon 
Lord  Byron  took  up  his  abode  in  their 
palace,  and  the  repose  of  heart  and  mind 
he  thus  attained  was  so  great  that  no  sad- 


In  Ravenna  213 

ness  seemed  able  to  come  near  him  so 
long  as  this  tranquil,  regular,  pleasing  sort 
of  existence  lasted." 

The  chapter  embodying  this  choice  ex- 
cerpt bears  the  caption,  The  Melancholy 
of  Lo7'd  Byron.  The  naive  presumption 
upon  her  readers'  sympathy  in  the  lament 
over  the  untoward  circumstances  that  in- 
duced his  relapse  into  the  slough  of  de- 
spond must  provoke  a  smile  from  the  most 
puritanical  of  us  all.  We  are  left  to  glean 
from  other  sources  the  trivial  facts  of  the 
trustincr  husband's  awakenings  to  the  rela- 
tions  existing  between  the  wife  who  was 
many  years  his  junior,  and  his  honoured 
guest  and  friend,  promoted  by  the  unsus- 
pecting old  noble  to  the  position  of  her 
cavaliere  servente. 

Byron's  residence  in  the  Palazzo  Guic- 
cioli  came  to  an  unpleasant  end,  and  he 
returned  to  his  old  quarters. 

"  The   Countess  G obtained    from 

his  Holiness  Pius  VII.,  at  the  petition  of 
her  parents,  permission  to  leave  her  hus- 
band and  return  home  to  her  family,"  is 
our  next   item  of  disconnected   informa- 


2  14         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

tion,  and  that,  while  his  fair  friend  lived 
quietly  in  a  country  house,  Byron  "  was 
now  reduced  to  solitude  in  the  same  place 
her  presence  had  gladdened." 

"  Ravenna,"    continues    the    Countess 

G ,  "  which   is  always  a  sad  kind  of 

abode,  becomes  in  autumn  quite  a  desert, 
liable  to  fever.  There  was  no  longer  a 
single  being  with  whom  he  could  exchange 
a  word  or  a  thought." 

Equinoctial  storms  of  wind  and  rain 
prevented  him  from  seeking  solace  in  his 
favourite  diversions  of  boating,  swimming, 
and  riding.  The  Casa  Lord  Byron,  sod- 
den with  rain  outside  until  the  buff  walls 
were  a  jaundiced  yellow,  while  the  sea- 
winds,  driving  in  at  the  casement  seams 
and  under  the  doors  over  the  stone  floors, 
made  the  interior  as  bleak  as  the  drenched 
outer  world,  must  have  been  a  sorry  place, 
difficult  to  conceive  of  amid  the  bloom 
and  brightness  of  the  Italian  garden  be- 
fore our  eyes. 

"  This  season  kills  me  with  sadness," 
the  ennuy^ed  exile  wrote  to  the  Countess 
G ,  September  20,    1820.     "When  I 


In  Ravenna  215 

have  my  mental  malady  it  is  well  for 
others  to  keep  away.  Love  me  !  My  soul 
is  like  the  leaves  that  fall  in  autumn — all 
yellow." 

He  had  more  active  causes  for  discon- 
tent as  the  weeks  went  on.  Dreading 
few  things  more  than  a  return  to  the  Eng- 
land he  had  sworn  he  would  never  see 
again,  he  regarded  with  repugnance  the 
probability  that  he  might  be  summoned 
as  a  witness  in  the  trial  of  Queen  Caroline, 
then  pending  in  the  English  courts.  His 
letters  kept  him  uneasy  on  this  head,  and 
furthermore  contained  news  of  the  dan- 
gerous illness  of  his  illegitimate  daughter 
Allegra,  who,  happily  for  her,  died  some 
months  later.     Side  by  side  with   these 

troubles,    the    Countess    G sets   the 

grave  fact  that,  notwithstanding  the  gra- 
cious decree  of  Pius  VH.,  she  "continued 
to  be  tormented  by  her  husband,  who  re- 
fused to  accept  the  decision  of  Rome 
because  he  did  not  wish  for  a  separation." 
Also,  that  "  the  Papal  Government,  pushed 
on  by  the  Austrian  police,  had  recourse 
to  a  thousand  small,  vexatious  measures 


2i6         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

to  make  Lord  Byron  quit  Ravenna,  where 
he  had  given  offence  by  becoming  too 
popular  with  the  Liberal  Party." 

The  weather  of  that  winter  is  described 
as  "  extraordinary.  Snow  and  sirocco 
one  day  ;  ice  and  snow  the  other."  On 
account  of  a  misunderstanding  with  his 
English  publisher  and  agent,  Byron's  let- 
ters and  papers  were  not  forwarded  to  Ra- 
venna for  several  weeks  together. 

"  His  sole  amusement  consisted  in  stir- 
ring the  fire  and  playing  with  Lion,  his 
mastiff,  or  with  his  little  menagerie." 

Don  Juan  had  been  published  anony- 
mously, and  a  new  anxiety  beset  him  on 
hearing  that  Shelley  had  been  adjudged 
unfit  to  have  the  guardianship  of  his  child 
in  consequence  of  his  atheistic  writings. 
Ada  Byron,  by  the  terms  of  her  parents' 
separation,  was  to  be  allowed  to  commun- 
icate with  and  to  see  her  father  at  his  will, 
when  she  should  reach  the  age  of  eighteen. 
Byron  wrote  urgently  to  his  publishers 
not  to  allow  the  authorship  of  his  poem 
to  transpire. 

"  I  prefer  my  child  to  a  poem  at  any  time." 


In  Ravenna  217 

A  prey  to  "  the  worm,  the  canker,  and 
the  grief,"  he  Hved  out  the  lowering  days, 
with  no  prospect  from  his  windows  save 
the  dripping  blank  walls  of  the  opposite 
houses,  chilled  to  the  bone  and  to  the 
heart.  Yet  a  half-smile  of  contempt  curls 
our  lips  in  reading  that  his  evening  visit 

to    the   Countess   G ,  who  had  again 

taken  up  her  abode  in  Ravenna,  was  the 
only  light  that  crossed  his  shadowed  path. 
One  passage  is  almost  pastoral  in  guileless 
phraseology  : 

"  A  few  simple  airs  played  by  her  on  the 
piano,  some  slight  diversion,  such  as  a  ray 
of  sunshine  between  two  showers,  or  a  star 
in  the  heavens,  raising  hopes  of  a  brighter 
morrow,  sufficed  to  clear  up  his  horizon," 

The  effect  of  the  sketch,  dashed  in  with 
these  few  touches  of  the  artistic  brush, 
would  be  pleasing  were  it  not  for  sundry 
inconvenient  memories  which  break  up 
unities  and  injure  perspectives. 

In  18 16  Byron  had  studied  the  Armen- 
ian language  because  he  "  found  that  his 
mind  wanted  something  craggy  to  break 
upon,"   and  he    had  chosen    this    rugged 


2i8         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

tongue  "  to  torture  him  into  attention." 
To  the  same  end,  he  began,  and  finished, 
Sardanapalus  in  Ravenna. 

The  Countess  G had  gone  to  Flor- 
ence and  Pisa  upon  a  visit  of  some  length, 
and  her  letters,  "  pregnant  with  alarm  and 
affliction  lest  Lord  Byron  should  be  assas- 
sinated at  Ravenna,"  did  not  abate  the 
melancholy  that  settled  upon  his  spirit  like 
the  miasmatic  mists  of  the  marshes  across 
which  he  galloped  every  passably  fine  day 
to  the  '*  long  alleys  of  imperial  pines." 

In  the  absence  of  his  fair  friend,  the 
most  brilliant  and  the  most  miserable  man 
of  his  day  had  his  evenings  again  upon  his 
hands,  and  with  no  companions  except 
faithful  Lion  and  the  trooping  memories 
at  which  we  have  hinted.  They  had  been 
busy  and  relentless  on  the  night  preceding 
the  anniversary  of  a  day  he  had  cursed 
many  a  time,  and  more  savagely  than  in 
the  mood  that  prompted  lines  whose  power 
and  pathos  lie  in  their  sincerity  and  lack 
of  art : 

"  To-morrow  is  my  birthday.  That  is 
to  say,  at  twelve  of  the  clock,  midnight — 


In  Ravenna  ±ig 

I.  e.,  in  twelve  minutes,  I  shall  have  com- 
pleted thirty-three  years  of  age  ! !  !  and  I 
go  to  my  bed  with  a  heaviness  of  heart  at 
having  lived  so  long,  and  to  so  little  pur- 
pose. ...  I  do  not  regret  this  year  for 
what  I  have  done,  but  for  what  I  have  no^ 
done." 

The  tablet  above  the  door  of  the  Casa 
Lord  Byron  was  inserted  in  the  wall  many 
years  after  the  death  of  him  who  made 
the  homely  building  classic.  We  copy  part 
of  it  from  our  seat  in  the  carriage  we  have 
engaged  to  take  us  to  the  Pineta  after  we 
have  visited  the  Tomb  of  Dante  on  the 
next  corner  : 

LORD   BYRON, 

Splendore  del  Secolo  Decimonono 

E   di  nostre  glorie  poeta    nell'    insuperato    Child 

Harold 
Questa  Casa  il  lo  Giugno  1819  a  sua  duiora  eletta 
Perche  vicina  alia  Tomba  di  Dante  Alighieri 
Otto  mesi  abitava  mal  sapendosi  dividere 
Dair  immortale  dell'  Italia  indipendenza  initiatore 
E  dair  famosa  ed  unica  Pineta. 

(LORD   BYRON, 

Splendour  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and 


220         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

poet  of  our  glories  in  the  unsurpassed 
Childe  Harold,  selected  this  house  as  his 
dwelling,  June  lo,  1819,  because  near  to 
the  tomb  of  Dante  Aligfhieri.  He  lived 
in  it  eight  months,  hardly  knowing  how  to 
part  from  the  immortal  initiator  of  Italian 
independence  and  from  the  famous  and 
unique  Pineta.  ) 
Byron  tells  us : 

"  I  pass  each  day  where  Dante's  bones  are  laid  ; 
A  little  cupola,  more  neat  than  solemn, 
Protects  his  dust." 

Within  the  last  forty  years  we  have 
learned  that  the  "neat"  tomb  before 
which  the  brother-bard  must  have  mused 
a  thousand  times,  and  upon  which  he  laid 
a  sheaf  of  his  own  poems  in  reverent 
sympathy  with  the  transports  that  drove 
Alfieri  to  his  knees  at  the  base  of  the 
monument  crowned  by  the  august  profile 
in  basso  rilievo,  —  did  not  then  hold 
Dante's  bones,  or  so  much  as  a  handful 
of  his  ashes. 

"The  story  of  his  burial,  and  of  the 
discovery  of  his  real  tomb  is  fresh  in  the 


DANTE'S  TOMB  IN  RAVENNA. 


In  Ravenna  221 

memory  of  everyone,"  writes  John  Ad- 
dington  Symonds,  in  his  exquisite  mono- 
graph upon  Ravenna. 

We  have  heard  several  versions  of  the 
tale,  but  these  were  so  contradictory  and 
garbled  that  we  gratefully  avail  ourselves 
of  more  direct  information,  in  the  shape  of 
a  history  of  Ravenna  bought  here  and 
recommended  as  trustworthy  by  compe- 
tent judges  of  historic  records.  The  ac- 
count herein  given  is,  perhaps,  far  more 
interesting  to  us  than  to  Mr.  Symonds's 
better-read  audience.  Especially  when 
the  rough  translation  I  take  the  liberty  to 
append  herewith  is  rendered  low  and  rap- 
idly within  the  very  precincts  of  the  small 
temple,  our  skirts  brushing  the  shrine  and, 
through  the  open  door,  the  sunshine  fall- 
ing aslant  upon  the  familiar  lineaments  of 
the  Mighty  Master  : 

"  From  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century 
until  1865,  incessant  demands  were  made 
by  Florence  for  the  bones  of  the  Poet, 
that  they  might  be  reverently  deposited 
in  the  Church  of  Santa  Croce.  But  the 
love  and  just  pride  which  moved  that  city 


222         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

to  demand  this,  determined  Ravenna  to 
refuse  it.  When,  however,  Ravenna  was 
once  more  under  the  power  of  the  Popes, 
and  a  Medici,  under  the  name  of  Leo  X., 
mounted  the  papal  throne,  the  danger 
that  the  precious  skeleton  might  be  rifled 
from  its  niche  became  imminent.  In  fact, 
Leo  X.,  in  15 19,  granted  permission  to 
the  Florentines  to  open  the  sepulchre  of 
Dante,  take  up  the  remains,  and  transport 
them  to  their  own  country.  When  the 
commissioners  arrived,  and  the  urn  was 
opened,  they  found  only  a  few  leaves  of 
laurel  and  aloes  and  a  little  dust. 

"They  beheld,  also,  that  in  the  side  of 
the  arch  backed  by  the  wall  of  the  con- 
vent [Franciscan]  there  was  a  fissure,  and 
comprehended  that  the  Franciscans  had 
foiled  them  by  working  from  the  inside  of 
the  cloister  and  removing  the  bones.  The 
regrets  of  the  Florentines  were  great,  and 
continued  under  the  reign  of  Clement 
Vn.  [another  Medici],  but  he  was  en- 
grossed by  too  many  and  too  serious  po- 
litical complications  to  occupy  himself 
with    the    bones    of   a  poet.      These    re- 


In  Ravenna  223 

mained  within  the  monastery,  in  the 
jealous  custody  of  the  brethren,  who 
transmitted  them  from  one  generation  to 
the  other,  making  at  intervals  a  recognition 
[recog7iizione\.  One  of  these  was  made 
by  Father  Antonio  Santi,  in  1677,  and 
another,  it  appears,  in  1723,  by  Father 
Guardiano  Pallavese.  Those  who  be- 
lieved that  Father  Santi  concealed  the 
casket  he  had  made  containing  the  bones, 
within  the  walled  gate  where  they  were 
found  in  1865,  were  mistaken.  This  gate 
was  opened  in  1701,  hardly  a  quarter- 
century  after  the  recognizione  of  Father 
Santi,  and  remained  open  to  give  access 
to  the  old  cemetery  during  the  entire  cent- 
ury. Everything  indicates  that  the  bones 
were  hidden  where  they  afterward  came 
to  light  as  late  as  18 10.  That  is,  when 
the  Franciscans,  under  the  new  law  of 
suppression,  departed  with  no  hope  of 
return.  It  is  certainly  known  that  one 
Father  Amadori  went  about  shortly  after, 
saying  '  there  was  to  be  found  in  Braccio- 
ioxX.^  a  great  treasure.'     . 

"In  1865,  the  year  in  which  occurred 


2  24         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

the  sixth  centenary  of  Dante's  birth,  the 
Commune  set  about  the  demohtion  of  a 
small  church  near  the  tomb  of  the  Poet. 
In  this  work  they  found  that  part  of  the 
wall  corresponded  with  the  wall  of  the 
Franciscan  monastery.  Five  urns  were 
discovered  here,  the  statue  of  Guardarello 
Guardarelli,  and,  in  a  walled-up  gate,  a 
portion  of  which  is  now  preserved  in  an 
enclosure  of  Istria  stone,  the  coffer  con- 
taining the  bones  of  Dante.  .  .  .  This 
wooden  casket  in  which,  in  1677,  Father 
Antonio  Santi  deposited  the  bones  of 
Dante  .  .  .  after  the  recogntzio7te,  is 
still  preserved  in  the  library." 

We  are  led  out  of  the  temple  tomb 
into  an  adjoining  area,  where  the  cus- 
todian unlocks  a  door  in  the  side  of  the 
oblong  "enclosure  of  Istria  stone,"  that 
we  may  see  the  former  hiding-place  of 
the  hoarded  and  hunted  mortal  part  of 
Dante, — a  wanderer  and  fugitive  in  death 
as  in  life. 

It  is  all  infinitely  pitiable,  but  our  re- 
grets are  not  with  "  ungrateful  Florence  " 
in  "  the  remorse  of  ag^es  "  that  found  ex- 


In  Ravenna  225 

pression  in  the  unseemly  game  of  hide- 
and-seek. 

From  Byron's  house  and  Dante's  tomb, 
we  turn  our  faces,  naturally,  to  the  Pineta 
of  To-day,  the  Pinetum  of  a  Past  so  old 
we  are  dizzied  in  the  thinking  of  it. 

Ravenna  was  a  Roman  naval  station 
before  Christ,  and  before  that  was  a  pro- 
totype of  Venice  in  situation,  wealth,  and 
beauty,  '*  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  huge 
lagoon,  the  fresh  waters  of  the  Ronco 
and  the  Po  mixing  with  the  salt  waves  of 
the  Adriatic  around  its  very  walls."  The 
sea  has  receded  sullenly  as  riches  and 
population  have  deserted  the  doomed 
city,  until  she  lies  stranded  six  miles,  as 
the  crow  flies,  from  the  nearest  beach. 
Shrunken  and  decrepit,  her  only  pulse  of 
commerce  is  a  sluggish  canal,  ten  miles 
long,  down  which  a  few  small  vessels 
creep  to  the  Adriatic. 

Wood  for  the  galleys  of  Augustus,  for 
those  of  the  consuls  who  went  before,  and 
for  the  ships  of  those  who  wore  the  im- 
perial purple  after  him,  was  cut  in  the 
Pinetum,  then  forty  miles  in  length,  and 


226         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

five  or  six  in  width.  We  are  told, — and 
we  credit  it,  at  sight  of  the  remaining 
monarchs,  lifting  their  palmy  brows  to 
heaven, — that  these  pines  did  not  gain 
maturity  in  height,  in  heart,  and  in  girth 
under  three  centuries  of  growth.  After  a 
five  miles'  drive  over  a  depressing  level, 
we  catch  sight  of  this  remnant  of  departed 
grandeur.  To  our  apprehension  it  vies  in 
mournful  magnificence  with  the  unfading 
mosaics  of  aged  Ravenna. 

Half-way  between  the  town  and  the 
old  boundary  of  the  Pinetum  is  a  church 
founded  in  memory  of  an  immediate  suc- 
cessor of  the  Apostles,  who  suffered  mar- 
tyrdom here  ''July  2j,  79/"  The  flat, 
long  road  is  a  mere  causeway,  bordered, 
for  a  couple  of  miles,  by  fertile  fields  and 
farm-cottages,  after  that  by  festering  fens 
that  breed  deadly  fevers  in  summer  and 
autumn.  Like  the  fickle  sea,  the  pine 
forest  has  retreated  from  the  city  of  which 
it  was  formerly  the  inimitable  ornament. 
We  gain  the  impression,  in  looking  back 
to  her  and  forward  to  the  solemn  border 
of  blackish-green  cutting  into  the  sky-line, 


In  Ravenna  227 

that  the  two  were  in  an  unholy  compact 
in  leaving  the  discrowned  queen  to  die 
slowly  and  alone. 

Our  cab-driver  calls  the  weary  route 
five  miles  long.  We  know  it  to  be  ten 
before  we  alight  at  the  outermost  rank 
of  the  ancient  giants.  The  terrible  frosts 
in  the  winter  of  1880-81  killed  great  trees 
by  the  hundred,  and  younger  by  the 
thousand.  In  1895,  a  fire,  kindled  by 
some  wood-cutters,  got  away  from  them 
and  burned  up  so  much  of  what  the  frost 
had  left  that  a  scanty  fringe,  between 
seven  and  eight  miles  in  length  and  less 
than  a  mile  broad,  is  all  we  have  left  of 
"what  existed  in  the  time  of  Odoacer 
and  has  been  extolled  by  Dante,  Boccac- 
cio, Dryden,  and  Byron." 

Sweet-hearted  Nature,  nowhere  more 
generous  than  in  Italy,  is  doing  her  best, 
and  in  loving  haste,  to  rebuild  the  waste 
places.  Thickets  of  hawthorn  and  wild 
roses  have  grown  up  again  among  the 
columnar  boles  of  the  larger  trees ;  creep- 
ing vines,  some  of  which  we  know  by 
sight  and  name,  although  most  of  them 


228         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

are  as  strange  as  they  are  lovely,  run 
lithely  up  to  the  lower  boughs  and  fling 
out  flowering  pendants  in  the  balm-laden 
air.  The  breath  of  the  balsamic  trees  is 
a  catholicon  in  the  very  heart  of  the  pesti- 
lential district.  Miasmatic  currents  from 
the  marshes  never  pass  the  charmed  ram- 
parts. We  pick  up  brown  cones  with 
closely  knit  scales,  glossy,  as  from  varnish, 
and  of  surprising  weight.  They  are  laden, 
we  are  informed,  with  the  chief  wealth  of 
the  neighbouring  peasantry,  the  toothsome 
kernels  of  the  stone-pine,  popular  with 
Italian  cooks,  and  with  confectioners  every- 
where. The  ground  is  carpeted  by  mosses 
and  wild-flowers ;  now  and  then  a  bird 
sends  a  melodious  trill  or  cadenza  from 
arbors  no  man  has  planted  or  woven. 
Among  the  evergreen  rafters  and  groin- 
ings  of  the  roof,  a  hundred  feet  above 
our  heads,  the  music  goes  on  forever, — 
anthem,  chant,  Miserere,  and  Te  Deu7n, — 
a  magnificent  surge  of  sound,  movements, 
and  numbers  that  were  old  when  the  world 
was  young. 


In  Ravenna  229 

"  Harpers,  harping  with  their  harps," 

quotes  one,  softly. 
Another, — 

"  The  Wind — that  grand  old  harper — smote 
His  thunder-harp  of  pines." 

For  us,  Dante  walks  still  beneath  the 
boughs  that  combine  into  our  cathedral- 
roof.  "  Che  mspirb  gik  il  Divino^'  is  a 
clause  in  the  tablet  upon  Byron's  house 
in  Ravenna.  The  English  poet's  love 
for  the 

" solitude 

Of  the  pine-forest,  and  the  silent  shore 
Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood. 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed  o'er 
To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood," 

puts  words  into  our  mouths  and  gentler 
charity  into  our  hearts  as  we,  too,  stroll 
and  dream. 


XIII 
IL  MAGNIFICO 


231 


XIII 
XL   MAGNIFICO 


IT  was  a  Pazzo  who  brought  to  Florence 
a  torch  kindled  at  the  fire  that  comes 
down  yearly  from  Heaven  to  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  in  Jerusalem.  With  fine  dis- 
regard of  distances  by  sea  and  land,  and 
the  non-existence  of  swift  transit  facilities 
a  thousand-and-odd  years  ago,  the  legend 
relates  how  the  then  obscure  adventurer 
transported  the  sacred  fire  at  full  gallop 
all  the  way  from  the  church  built  by 
Constantine  at  the  behest  of  his  mother, 
Helena,  to  Santa  Reparata,  on  the  site 
of  which  the  Duomo  of  Florence  now 
stands. 

When  within  a  few  miles  of  the  city  he 

perceived  that  the  current  of  air  created 

by  his  breakneck  zeal  endangered  the  life 

of    the    blazing    flambeau.      Whereupon, 

233 


2  34         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

without  checking  his  speed,  he  wheeled 
about  in  the  saddle  and  dashed  into  the 
city,  facing  the  horse's  tail,  thus  screening 
the  flickering  fire  with  his  body. 

"  See  the  pas3o  (crazy  fellow)  !"  hooted 
the  mob. 

From  which  outcry,  when  the  truth  was 
known, — and  the  pious  ingenuity  of  the 
rider  was  rewarded  by  the  thanks  of  the 
Church  and  the  freedom  of  the  city,  with 
a  palace  and  a  fortune  thrown  in  to  weight 
the  empty  honours, — the  house  that  be- 
came a  power  in  the  State  took  the  name 
of  Pazzi,  and  bore  it  boastfully  forever 
afterward. 

This  is  the  story  revived  in  Florence 
upon  each  Easter-even,  when  all  the  world 
crowds  to  the  Cathedral  to  witness  the 
spectacle  some  dead-and-gone-ages-ago 
Pazzi — perhaps  the  original  torchbearer 
— left  money  to  perpetuate  to  the  end  of 
time,  or  as  long  as  people  are  willing  to 
be  fooled,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing. 

We  saw  it,  a  month  ago,  in  the  Duomo 
where  Savonarola  used  to  preach  against 


II  Magnifico  235 

priestly  follies  and  vain  amusements,  and 
lies  of  all  sorts.  A  tall  pole  was  held  up- 
right in  the  central  aisle  by  wires ;  other 
wires  ran  from  it  to  the  high  altar  and  to 
the  great  front  door,  the  whole  length  of 
the  building.  The  crowd,  like  all  holiday 
Italian  crowds,  was  good-humoured,  cour- 
teous, and  patient  of  the  hour's  delay  be- 
tween the  time  set  for  the  exhibition  and 
its  actual  occurrence.  Mass  was  going  on 
before  the  altar.  Gleams  of  moving  can- 
dles, the  white  sacques  of  choir-boys,  and 
the  tinselled  copes  and  stoles  of  the  offi- 
ciating priests  were  visible  in  the  gaps  of 
the  throngr.  A  few  of  those  who  were 
near  enough  to  see  what  was  passing 
there,  knelt  and  bowed,  from  time  to  time, 
rather  politely  than  devoutly.  Snatches 
of  responsive  chanting  arose  above,  and 
punctuated,  the  hum  of  talk  and  the  inde- 
scribable rustle  of  moving  human  bodies 
as  the  press  became  solid  from  wall  to 
wall.  The  palpitating  mass  parted,  and 
without  disorder,  to  clear  the  aisle  for  a 
procession  of  priests  and  acolytes  with 
tapers  and  one  odd-looking  pennon  fast- 


236         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

ened  to  a  long  staff,  marching  slowly, 
chanting  as  they  passed,  to  the  door  and 
so  out  into  the  square.  Their  errand  was 
to  bless  the  pyramidal  car,  wreathed  with 
flowers  and  strung  with  fireworks,  await- 
ing the  coming  of  the  sacred  flame  from 
the  altar.  The  four  immense  cream-col- 
oured oxen  with  garlanded  horns,  attached 
to  the  car,  shared  in  the  benediction. 

The  procession  marched  back  to  the 
chancel,  and,  within  a  decent  interval  after 
this  return,  a  glare  of  electric  light  lit  up 
the  building ;  a  rocket  whizzed  shrilly 
along  the  central  wire,  showering  sparks 
as  it  ftew,  and  through  the  entrance  to  the 
peak  of  the  car.  Then,  amid  the  banging 
and  popping  and  hissing  that  filled  the 
great  dome  with  smoke  and  reverbera- 
tion, it  sped  back  to  the  tall  pole,  its  mis- 
sion accomplished.  The  rocket  is  known 
as  the  "  Dove."  The  exhibition  would 
be  puerile  and  undignified  at  a  Fourth  of 
July  celebration  in  a  mining-camp  of  the 
rudest  West.  It  signifies  the  descent  of 
the  holy  fire  which  we,  of  this  practical 
century,  are  asked   to  believe  is  miracu- 


II  Magnifico  237 

lously  kindled  annually  in  the  (alleged) 
Holy  Sepulchre. 

Dove,  pyrotechnics,  and  legend  are  sanc- 
tioned by  the  Mother  Church,  and  the 
**show"  is  ushered  in  by  religious  services 
in  a  consecrated  temple.  The  sequitur  is 
the  slow,  lumbering  progress  of  the  car 
drawn  by  the  blessed  oxen,  to  the  Pazzi 
palace,  in  grateful  recognition  of  the  mu- 
nificence that  bestowed  one  more  festa 
upon  the  Italian  populace. 

The  Pazzi,  at  a  much  later  date  in 
Florentine  history,  played  a  leading  part 
in  another  and  far  dissimilar  scene  in  this 
same  Duomo.  The  names  of  Francesco 
and  Jacopo  Pazzi  were  prominent  among 
the  ringleaders  of  the  conspiracy  against 
the  lives  of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  (II  Magni- 
fico) and  his  favourite  brother,  Giuliano — 
"  a  kindly  youth  whose  only  fault  was  that 
he  belonged  to  the  cursed  line  of  the 
Medici."  The  nephews  of  the  reigning 
Pontiff,  Sixtus  V.,  the  Archbishop  of  Pisa, 
and  divers  of  the  lesser  clergy,  were  mixed 
up  with  the  plot  to  assassinate  the  broth- 
ers upon  Sunday,  April  26,    1478.       The 


238         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

moment  fixed  upon  (let  us  hope  not  by 
papal  authority)  was  that  when,  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  service,  the  Host 
should  be  elevated  by  the  priest  above 
the  kneeling  congregation.  Lorenzo  was 
"told  off"  to  the  dagger  of  a  reverend 
accomplice,  while  the  Pazzi  undertook  to 
despatch  Giuliano. 

We  have  read  the  tragedy  in  a  dozen 
different  books,  and  always  with  a  throb  of 
keenest  pity  for  the  inoffensive  youth,  who 
fell  a  swift  and  bloody  sacrifice  to  his  de- 
tested name.  In  my  girlhood  I  hung  spell- 
bound over  a  historical  novelette  that  had 
its  denouement  in  the  Cathedral  murder. 
I  have  forgotten  author  and  title.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  story  of  Francesco  Pazzi's 
call  for  Giuliano  at  the  house  of  the 
latter,  that  the  conspirators  might  be  sure 
of  his  attendance  at  the  evening  service, 
and  the  incident  of  the  false  friend's  im- 
pulsive embrace  of  his  smiling  dupe,  that 
he  might  know  whether  or  not  he  wore  a 
shirt  of  mail  under  his  silken  doublet. 

The  very  words  of  the  novelist  have 
stayed  by  me  all  these  years. 


II  Magnifico  239 

"  Reassured  by  the  warmth  and  softness 
of  the  unprotected  flesh,  he  let  his  hand 
sHp  from  GiuHano's  shoulder  to  his  arm, 
and  the  two  walked  on  gayly,  side-by-side, 
to  the  Cathedral,  already  thronged  with 
worshippers." 

The  younger  of  the  Medicean  brothers 
was  stabbed  to  the  heart  by  Francesco  de' 
Pazzi  at  the  (jiven  sigrnal.  In  kneeling  at 
the  lifting  of  the  Host,  Giuliano  bowed 
himself  in  death.  The  assassin  struck 
again  to  make  sure  of  his  deadly  purpose, 
and  in  his  awkward  violence  lamed  him- 
self by  a  cut  in  the  thigh.  The  priest's 
attack  upon  Lorenzo  was  yet  more  clumsy, 
inflicting  only  a  flesh-wound  in  the  neck. 
Although  taken  at  such  cruel  disadvan- 
tage, Lorenzo  defended  himself  so  well 
that  he  and  the  two  friends  who  had  ac- 
companied him  to  the  Cathedral — Poli- 
tian,  the  poet  and  scholar,  and  Antonio 
Ridolfi,  a  Florentine  noble — fought  their 
way  to  the  sacristy  and  barred  the  door 
against  their  assailants.  Once  secure  in 
their  asylum,  Ridolfi's  first  action  was  to 
apply  his  lips  to  the  cut  in  his  patron's 


240         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

neck,  to  draw  out  the  venom  should  the 
priestly  poniard  have  been  poisoned. 

Foiled  of  their  prey,  the  assassins 
rushed  into  the  streets  of  the  town,  calling 
upon  the  oppressed  people  to  rise  against 
the  Medicean  tyrant,  Jacopo  de'  Pazzi 
shoutino-  "  Freedom !  and  down  with 
the  palle !  (the  balls  that  were  the  ar- 
mourial bearings  of  the  Medici)."  The 
effort  to  rally  those  whose  cooperation 
they  had  a  right  to  expect  was,  like  the 
demonstration  in  the  Duomo,  a  pitiable 
failure. 

In  the  highly  dramatic  sketch  of  the 
unsuccessful  plot  given  in  Howells's  Tuscan 
Cities, — than  which  no  other  volume  of 
travel  conveys  to  us  more  faithfully  the 
very  breath  and  colour  of  Florentine  life, — 
the  bungler,  Francesco,  is  apostrophised 
with  graphic  bitterness  : 

"  Pick  yourself  up,  Francesco  Pazzi,  and 
get  home  as  you  may  !  There  is  no 
mounting  to  horse  and  crying  liberty 
through  the  streets  for  you  !  All  is  over  ! 
The  wretched  populace,  the  servile  si- 
gnory,  side  with  the  Medici.     In   a  few 


II  Magnifico  241 

hours  the  Archbishop  of  Pisa  is  swinging 
by  the  neck  from  a  window  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio  ;  and  while  he  is  yet  alive,  you 
are  dragged,  bleeding  and  naked,  from 
your  bed  through  the  streets  and  hung 
beside  him,  so  close  that,  in  his  dying 
agony,  he  sets  his  teeth  in  your  breast 
with  a  convulsive  frenzy  that  leaves  you 
fast  in  the  death-clutch  of  his  jaws  till 
they  cut  the  ropes,  and  you  run  hideously 
down  to  the  pavement  below." 

One  has  need  to  draw  a  deep,  painful 
breath  between  this  passage  and  the  next 
chapter,  a  necessity  acknowledged  by  the 
author  in  the  introductory  sentence  : 

"  One  must  face  these  grisly  details 
from  time  to  time,  if  he  would  feel  what 
Florence  was,  .  .  .  Compared  with 
modern  cities,  Florence  was  but  a  large 
town,  and  these  Pazzi  were  neighbours 
and  kinsmen  of  the  Medici,  and  they  and 
their  fathers  had  seen  the  time  when  the 
Medici  were  no  more  in  the  State  than 
other  families  which  had  perhaps  scorned 
to  rise  by  their  arts." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  virtuous 


242         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

scruples  of  the  Pazzi  and  the  superior  arts 
of  the  Medici,  all  Florence,  and  the  world 
that  knew  Florence,  appreciated  the  glit- 
tering fact  of  the  Medici's  eminence. 

On  the  golden  afternoon  we  have  chosen 
for  our  visit  to  the  Villa  Careggi,  where 
— to  borrow  once  more  from  the  master  of 
terse  and  comprehensive  English  to  whom 
we  owe  Tusca7i  Cities, — "  Lorenzo  m.ade 
a  dramatic  end  twenty  years  after  the 
tragedy  in  the  Cathedral," — we  pass  sun- 
dry statues  and  mural  tablets  to  Cosimo, 
"  Pater  Patrice''  and  more  Medici  coats-of- 
arms  than  we  care  to  count.  It  is  an  ugly 
escutcheon,  to  our  way  of  thinking,  with 
a  strong  dash  of  the  absurd  in  the  big 
boluses  jutting  out  from  the  surface  of  the 
shield  to  keep  the  ages  in  mind  of  the 
membership  in  the  Guild  of  the  Druggists 
or  the  Apothecaries.  The  taunt  that  the 
founder  of  the  imperial  house  made,  first, 
an  honest  living,  then,  a  less  honest  for- 
tune, by  compounding  and  rolling  pills, 
belongs  to  a  later  generation  of  critics 
than  the  contemporary  enemies  of  the 
Medici.     They,  at  least,  were  acquainted 


II  Magnifico  243 

with  the  law  enacted  in  1282,  by  which 
none  but  the  heads  of  manual  arts,  trad- 
ers, or  bankers,  were  eligible  to  the  princi- 
pal offices  of  the  State.  The  bourgeoisie 
were  masters  in  the  city  by  reason  of  their 
wealth  and  numbers,  and  were  ungenerous 
in  the  use  of  their  power. 

"  Members  of  the  aristocratic  party 
were  permitted  to  enroll  themselves  in 
any  guild  or  art  without  more  than  a  nom- 
inal adoption  of  the  craft  in  question,  by 
way  of  retaining  their  political  rights," 
says  a  chronicler  of  those  complex  times, 
and  reminds  us  that  "  Dante  Alighieri, 
poeta  fiorentino^'  belonged  to  the  Guild 
of  the  Apothecaries,  while  his  father 
was  a  member  of  the  Wool  Merchants' 
Guild. 

The  haughty  Medici,  in  their  haughtiest 
days,  were  so  far  from  being  ashamed  of 
their  escutcheon,  that  they  stuck  shield 
and  balls — otherwise  boluses — upon  every 
fa9ade  and  corner  where  was  room  or 
reason  for  displaying  them.  We  have 
found  them  in  Umbrian,  as  in  Tuscan 
cities,  and  the  many  that  remain  must  re- 


244         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

present  but  a  tithe  of  those  that  were  here 
in  the  reign  of  II  Magnifico. 

Before  quitting  the  city  for  the  Villa 
Careggi,  we  diverge  from  the  direct  route 
to  make  a  critical  study  of  the  Uffizi  statue 
of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  representing  him 
as  he  was  in  the  heyday  of  his  puissance. 
The  sculptor  would  have  done  his  best  to 
flatter  his  illustrious  subject  to  the  extrem- 
est  verge  of  compatibility  with  truth- 
fulness. Yet  it  would  be  easier  to  fancy 
that  we  are  looking  at  a  caricature  than 
upon  a  portrait  of  a  patron  whose  vanity 
was  as  patent  as  his  gilded  despotism. 
His  grandfather,  the  great  Cosimo,  lorded 
it  with  a  high  hand,  but  he  looked  the 
real  benevolence  he  felt  for  the  people 
calling  themselves  his  children.  The  cold 
sneer  Grazzini  has  petrified  for  us  was 
upon  Lorenzo's  lip  when  murder,  or  ra- 
pine, or  pleasure  was  the  business  of  the 
hour. 

"  There  was  something  sinister  and  hate- 
ful in  his  face,"  if  we  are  to  believe 
Villari. 

"  The    complexion   was    greenish,    the 


LORENZO    THE    MAGNIFICENT. 
'  There  was  something  sinister  and  hateful  in  his  face.' 


II  Magnifico  245 

mouth  very  large,  the  nose  flat,  and  the 
voice  nasal.  But  "—(even  with  hypercriti- 
cal biographers  there  must  be  a  "but") — 
"  But  his  eye  was  quick  and  keen,  his  fore- 
head was  high,  and  his  manner  had  all  .of 
gentleness  that  can  be  imagined  of  an  age 
so  refined  and  elegant  as  that.  His  con- 
versation was  full  of  vivacity,  wit,  and 
learning.     Those  who  were  admitted   to 

his  familiarity  were  always  fascinated  by 

h)) 
im. 

Mrs.  Oliphant's  invaluable  Makers  of 
Floreiice  thus  treats  of  the  magnificent 
tyrant : 

"  Lorenzo  reigned  in  the  midst  of  a 
lettered  crowd  of  classic  parasites  and 
flatterers,  writing  poems  which  his  court- 
iers found  better  than  Alighieri's,  and 
surrounding  himself  with  those  eloquent 
slaves  who  make  a  prince's  name  more 
famous  than  arms  or  victories,  and  who 
have  left  a  prejudice  in  the  minds  of  all 
literature-loving  people  in  favour  of  their 
patron.  A  man  of  superb  health  and 
physical  power  who  can  give  himself  up 
to  debauch  all   night  without   interfering 


246         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

with  his  power  of  working  all  day,  and 
whose  mind  is  so  versatile  that  he  can 
sack  a  town  one  morning  and  discourse 
upon  the  beauties  of  Plato  the  next,  and 
weave  joyous  ballads  through  both  oc- 
cupations— gives  his  flatterers  reason  when 
they  applaud  him.  .  .  .  The  age  of 
Lorenzo  was  hopeless,  morally,  full  of  de- 
bauchery, cruelty,  and  corruption,  violat- 
ing oaths,  betraying  trusts,  believing  in 
nothing  but  Greek  manuscripts,  coins,  and 
statues,  caring  for  nothing  but  pleasure." 

An  Italian  historian  supplies  the  details 
of  the  picture  of  what  Lorenzo  and  his 
troop  of  worshippers  claimed  was  the 
Augustan  Age  of  art-loving  Florence : 

"  Poets  of  every  kind,  gentle  and  simple, 
with  golden  cithern  and  with  rustic  lute, 
came  from  every  quarter  to  animate  the 
suppers  of  the  Magnifico.  Whosoever 
sang  of  arms,  of  love,  of  saints,  of  fools, 
was  welcome,  or  he  who,  drinking,  kept 
the  company  amused.     .     .     . 

"  Of  all  these  feasts  and  masquerades 
Lorenzo  was  the  inventor  and  master,  his 
great  wealth  helping  him  in  his  undertak- 


II  Magnifico  247 

ings.  In  the  darkening  of  twilight  it 
was  his  custom  to  issue  forth  into  the  city, 
to  amuse  himself  with  incredible  pomp 
and  a  great  retinue  on  horse  and  on  foot, 
more  than  five  hundred  in  number,  with 
concerts  of  musical  instruments,  singing 
in  many  voices,  all  sorts  of  canzones,  mad- 
rigals, and  popular  songs.  When  the  night 
fell,  four  hundred  servants  with  lighted 
torches  followed,  and  lighted  this  baccha- 
nalian procession." 

From  the  Riccardi  Palace,  the  town 
residence  of  the  Medici,  through  the  city 
gates  to  the  mansion  that  was  the  luxuri- 
ous centre  of  a  cluster  of  seven  Medicean 
country-seats,  streamed  the  glittering  tide 
of  revelers,  each  bent  upon  living  up — or 
down — to  their  favourite  watchword,  "  Up- 
on to-morrow  none  can  count,"  a  variation 
of  the  Fool's  song  of  all  ages — "  Let  us 
eat  and  drink,  and  be  merry,  for  to-mor- 
row we  die." 

The  two -miles- and- a- half  of  country 
road  leading  to  the  Villa  Careggi  is  as 
beautiful  as  the  fairest  dream  of  earthly 
Eden  cast  into  verse  by  Lorenzo's  poets. 


248         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

Stone  walls  and  terraces  are  hung  and 
heaped  with  roses, — Florentine  roses, — 
outnumbering  the  green  leaves  among 
which  they  blossom. 

Upon  entering  my  chamber  after  break- 
fast this  morning  I  found  it  fragrant  as  a 
bower  in  Bendemeer  from  the  deep  litter 
of  damp  rose-petals  scattered  upon  the 
carpet  to  lay  the  dust  before  the  house- 
maid swept  it,  as  wet  tea-leaves  are  used 
in  America.  After  petals  and  dust  are 
removed  together,  the  delicate  aroma 
lingers  in  the  air  for  hours. 

Whether  or  not  the  pretty  custom  pre- 
vailed in  Lorenzo's  time,  he  set  and  fol- 
lowed the  like  fashion  in  a  wider  and  more 
significant  sense.  He  entered  voluntarily 
upon  no  path  that  was  not  soft  and  sweet 
with  roses.  They  made  rough  places 
smooth  to  his  feet  and  goodly  to  look  upon  ; 
they  laid  the  dust  of  popular  discontent 
and  enervated  the  judgment  of  critics.  He 
stole  away  the  hearts  and  drugged  the 
consciences  of  the  people  by  pageants  for 
the  present,  and  promises  of  greater  abund- 
ance for  days  to  come,  and  was  in  nothing 


II  Magnifico  249 

more  consistent  than  in  the  brilliant  con- 
formity of  his  own  life  to  the  Epicurean 
philosophy  he  taught  to  others  : 

"  Roses  to-day,  if  to-morrow  the  rue  !  " 

If  he  ever  bethought  himself  of  a  pos- 
sible hour  when  roses  would  die  and  the 
bitter  breath  of  the  rue  fill  his  world,  he 
made  no  sign  of  misgiving  for  all  those 
twenty  years  of  prosperous  pleasures. 

White  clusters  of  honey-sweet  locust- 
blossoms  mingle  their  scent  with  the  breath 
of  the  queen  of  the  flowery  kingdom. 
Lush  grasses  carpet  the  meadows  ;  vines 
and  mulberry-  and  fig-trees  are  tender 
green,  and  the  leaves  of  olive-orchards 
shine  in  the  sun  like  frosted  silver.  The 
scarred  forehead  of  Fiesole  looks  grimly 
across  the  valley  down  upon  her  old  and 
victorious  rival,  Florence,  and  Morello 
shows,  rounded  and  clear,  against  a  cloud- 
less horizon,  in  serene  augury  of  a  fine 
morrow. 

Quando  Monte  Morello  ha  il  cappello^ 
Prendi  il  jnantello." 


250         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

(When  Mt.   Morello  wears  a  cap,  take  a 
cloak.) 

Villa  Careggi  is  well  hidden  from  the 
public  road  and  eye  behind  her  tall  gates 
and  luxuriant  plantations  of  ilex,  willows, 
and  beeches.  The  gardens  through  which 
we  stroll  in  a  sort  of  ecstatic  trance  before 
entering  the  house,  could  not  have  been 
more  beautiful  when  II  Magnifico  paced 
the  alleys,  in  grave  discussion  of  the  Aris- 
totelian philosophy  with  a  learned  Greek 
guest,  or  chatted  of  Florence  scandals  and 
exchanged  gay  repartees  with  his  least 
objectionable  favourite,  gentle  Pico  della 
Mirandola,  seated  lovingly  beside  him  on 
one  of  the  arboured  stone  benches  near  the 
fountain-pool,  masked,  to-day,  with  lily- 
pads.  A  branchy  vine  covers  the  wall 
capped  by  "  the  prettily  painted  loggia, 
where  Lorenzo  used  to  sit  with  his  friends, 
overlooking  Val  d'Arno,  and  glimpsing 
the  Tower  of  Giotto  and  the  Dome  of 
Brunelleschi."  The  thousand  odours 
pressed  from  the  wilderness  of  flowers 
below  by  the  fall  of  evening  dews,  must 
have   regaled   their  senses  while  talk  and 


II  Magnifico  251 

song  went  on,  and  when  the  wind  blew 
from  the  east  it  would  have  brought  the 
sweet  clangour  of  bells  from  theCampanile, 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  and  a  score  of  minor 
towers  and  steeples. 

The  room  in  which  II  Magnifico  lan- 
guished for  so  many  weeks  in  the  spring 
of  1492  that  we  wonder  no  story  has  come 
to  us,  as  from  the  Grand  Monarque's 
death-chamber,  of  sarcastic  apology  to  his 
courtiers  for  "  taking  such  an  unconscion- 
able time  in  dying,"  overlooks  the  loveli- 
est parterres  of  the  garden. 

There  is  modern  furniture  here,  and  we 
gravely  suspect  that  the  mural  decora- 
tions commemorative  of  the  glories  of  the 
Medici  may  have  been  amplified  and  "  re- 
stored "  since  the  eagle  eyes  were  bleared 
with  the  weary  gazing  upon  them.  But 
the  greenery,  and  the  flush  of  an  April 
rain  of  blossoms,  the  fair  pleasure-grounds, 
the  "  tall  cypress-bough,"  and  the  sheeny 
olives  outlying  the  garden-walls,  the  hazy 
domes  and  turrets  of  the  Florence  he  had 
beautified  and  corrupted,  were  what  we 
see   through    the   casement    opposite  the 


252         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

great,  sombre  bed  in  which,  it  is  said,  he 
died. 

He  was  but  forty-four  years  old,  and 
for  almost  thirty  of  those  years  he  had 
been  his  own  master,  inventing  vices  when 
the  vulgar  routine  of  familiar  excesses  was 
exhausted.  His  forefathers  had  had  their 
fill  of  an  evil  vintage,  and  left  to  him  a 
heritage  which,  in  the  course  of  nature, 
would  have  told  upon  his  phenomenal  con- 
stitution without  the  sapping  and  mining 
done  of  his  own  accord  and  at  his  wild 
will. 

He  kept  up  a  merry  show,  if  not  a  brave 
heart,  during  the  first  month  of  his  illness. 
Flatterers  many,  and  a  few  true  friends, 
relieved  one  another  in  the  task,  more 
difficult  each  day,  of  cheating  him  into 
forgetfulness  of  physical  agony  and  of 
what  these  were  surely,  if  slowly,  bringing 
toward  him. 

"The  strangest  thing  of  all  is,  that  in 
all  this  variety  of  life  they  cannot  cite  a 
solitary  act  of  real  generosity  toward  his 
people,  his  friends,  or  his  kinsmen ;  for 
surely  if  there  had  been  such  an  act,  his 


II  Magnifico  253 

indefatigable  flatterers  would  not  have 
forgotten  it,"  Villari  says,  sardonically. 

The  assertion  throws  a  lurid  glare  upon 
that  death-bed,  and  the  emulous  group 
about  it.  Poets  brought  new  verses  for 
his  criticism,  and  the  players  upon  instru- 
ments were  there,  with  professional  and 
paid  wits,  and  knots  of  nobly  born  youths, 
with  tales  of  court  amours  and  quarrels. 
And,  behind  them,  closing  in  upon  them 
in  their  follies,  and  him  in  his  pain,  a 
cordon  of  ghastly  shapes  he  alone  of  them 
all  saw,  and  even  he,  dauntless  and  defi- 
ant of  other  enemies,  feared  with  growing 
horror.  Dread  and  horror  broke  forth  at 
last.  He  was  about  to  die  and  he  would 
not  die  unconfessed.  But  one  man  would 
deal  honestly  with  his  guilty  soul.  He 
bade  his  attendants  send  for  Savonarola. 

In  turning  back  to  the  life  of  the  Prior 
of  San  Marco  we  read  that  Giovanni  Pico 
della  Mirandola — "  a  court  butterfly,  and 
the  most  learned  creature  that  ever  flut- 
tered near  a  prince,  but  of  amiable  senti- 
ments and  tender-heartedness,  and  the 
kindly  insight  of    an  unspoiled  heart " — 


254         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

had  wrought  upon  Lorenzo,  a  dozen  years 
or  so  before  this  honest  hour,  to  recall  to 
Florence  and  San  Marco  "  the  only  man 
who  dared  stand,  face  to  face,  with  him- 
self, and  tell  him  he  had  done  wrong." 

Our  hearts  are  drawn  out  in  fond  ad- 
miration for  this  "  butterfly,"  and,  if  only 
for  the  love  borne  him  by  Lorenzo,  we  in- 
cline to  demur  at  the  pitiless  dictum  of 
Villari.  We  can,  and  we  do,  believe  that 
the  splendid  scholar — who  lent  a  reverent 
ear  and  receptive  heart  to  the  teachings  of 
Savonarola,  and  who,  after  Lorenzo's 
death,  would  have  become  a  Dominican 
monk  and  entered  San  Marco  had  not  his 
own  early  decease  prevented  the  fulfillment 
of  his  wish  ;  who,  in  dying,  charged  the 
Prior  of  San  Marco  to  see  to  it  that  he 
was  buried  in  the  habit  of  the  order — was, 
as  historians  insist,  "  a  noble  young  gentle- 
man amid  all  his  frippery  of  courtier  and 
virtuoso."  He  was  among  the  last  visit- 
ors admitted  to  this  chamber  when  what 
the  dying  man  named  as  "  the  last  evening 
of  his  winter  "  (a  dreary  commentary  upon 
his  dazzling  career  !)  settled  darkly  about 


II  Magnifico  255 

him.  He  had  had  his  final  discourse  with 
his  son  Piero,  of  whose  disastrous  sover- 
eignty the  shrewd  statesman  had  more 
than  a  rude  premonition.  The  conversa- 
tion was  a  distress,  the  farewell  was  hope- 
less agony,  and  the  exhausted  sufferer 
gasped  out  "a  wish  to  see  Pico  della  Mi- 
randola  again,  who  immediately  hastened 
to  him.     .     .     . 

"  It  appeared  as  if  the  sweet  expression 
of  that  benevolent  and  gentle  young  man 
had  soothed  him  a  little,  for  he  said  to  him, 
'  I  should  have  died  unhappy  if  I  had  not 
first  been  cheered  by  a  sight  of  thy  face.'  " 

The  beautiful  touch  of  natural  human 
emotion  is  the  only  gleam  that  falls  from 
history  or  tradition  across  the  gloom  of 
that  fateful  scene. 

We  like  to  think  that  the  gentle  impor- 
tunity of  this  best-beloved  friend  was  the 
means  by  which  the  famous  interview  with 
Savonarola  was  brought  about.  The  Prior 
had  not  always  been  amenable  to  II  Mag- 
nifico's  blandishments  and  commands. 
When  Lorenzo  was  seen  walking,  unat- 
tended, in  the  garden  of  San  Marco,  the 


256         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

friars,  impressed  as  by  a  visit  from  Jove 
in  person,  flew  to  the  Prior's  cell  to  tell 
him  of  the  honour  conferred  upon  him  and 
their  house. 

"  Has  he  asked  to  see  me  ?"  asked  Sa- 
vonarola, just  raising  his  head  from  his 
desk,  and,  upon  hearing  that  his  magnifi- 
cent guest  had  spoken  with  no  one, — 
*'  Then  leave  him  to  his  meditations  !  " 

As  if  Lorenzo  had  sought  the  retreat 
for  no  other  purpose  than  to  think  and  to 
pray.  The  gold  put  into  the  alms-box  by 
the  lord  of  Florence  was  carefully  set 
aside  from  the  silver  and  copper  and  sent 
to  San  Martino  for  the  poor. 

"  We  do  not  want  so  much  money,"  was 
the  simple  excuse  for  the  apparent  un- 
graciousness of  the  act,  but  Lorenzo  com- 
prehended that  the  steadfast  preacher  was 
neither  to  be  flattered  nor  bribed  into  so 
much  as  a  passive  condoning  of  his  sins  as 
man  and  ruler.  It  was  not  till  Savonarola 
was  assured  by  a  second  messenger  from 
Villa  Careggi  that  II  Magnifico  was  really 
dying  and  earnestly  desirous  to  see  him, 
that  he  made  ready  to  go  to  him. 


II  Magnifico  257 

He  came  from  San  Marco  on  foot,  as 
he  was  wont  to  travel.  In  the  black  robe 
of  his  order,  the  cowl  drawn  over  his  sad 
brows,  he  crossed  the  fertile  valley  we  are 
looking  upon  now,  and  strode  up  the 
gentle  eminence  where  Careggi  sat,  a 
stately  planet  among  her  six  satellite  vil- 
las, all  belonging  to  the  proud  house  whose 
chief  was  in  the  death-throe.  Was  it 
among  the  olives  down  there,  or  in  the 
broad,  open  road  bordered  by  smiling 
vineyards,  or,  maybe,  beside  the  lilied 
fountain-pool  in  the  garden,  in  close  view 
of  this  window,  that  he  paused  to  say  to 
the  lay-brother  in  attendance  upon  him, — 
"  Lorenzo  will  die"  ?  He  knew  it  as  well 
then  as  when,  the  dust  of  the  way  white 
upon  his  sandals,  he  bent  his  ear  to  the 
confession  of  the  penitent. 

Prominent  among  the  "  three  things  that 
dragged  Lorenzo  back  and  threw  him  into 
despair,"  and  which  he  doubted  if  God 
would  ever  pardon,  was  the  murder  of  as 
many  of  the  house  of  Pazzi  as  he  could 
lay  his  revengeful  hands  upon  after  the 
assassination  of  his  young  brother  Giuliano 


258         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

and  the  attempt  upon  his  own  Hfe.  The 
other  two  were  the  brutal  pillage  of  the 
town  of  Volterra,  and  the  robbery  of  the  re- 
ligious house  of  Monte  delle  Fanciulle. 

Penitent  and  confessor  were  alone  in  this 
stately  chamber.  Lorenzo  was  propped 
1)y  pillows  in  the  bed,  and  Savonarola  sat, 
with  bowed  head,  at  his  right  hand,  mur- 
muring in  the  intervals  of  a  recital  that 
grew  in  anguish  and  incoherence  with  the 
rehearsal  of  each  haunting  crime, — "  God 
is  good  !  God  is  merciful !  " 

But  when  the  distracted  man  listened 
for  the  '' absolve  te''  that  should  follow 
these  gracious  platitudes,  the  deep  voice 
of  the  Prior  thrilled  through  the  stillness 
upon  the  dulling  ear  as  his  Master's  may 
liave  smote  that  of  the  young  ruler,  and 
in  somewhat  the  same  words  : 

"  Three  things  are  required  of  you." 

We  will  let  Villari  tell  the  rest : 

"  '  And  what  are  they,  Father  ?'  replied 
Lorenzo. 

"  Savonarola's  countenance  became 
grave,  and,  raising  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand,  he  thus  began  : 

"  '  First, — it     is    necessary    that     you 


II  Magnifico  259 

should  have  a  full  and  lively  faith  in  the 
mercy  of  God.' 

"'That  I  have,  most  fully.' 

"  '  Secondly,  it  is  necessary  to  restore 
that  which  you  unjustly  took  away,  or 
enjoin  your  sons  to  restore  it  for  you.' 

"  This  requirement  appeared  to  cause 
him  surprise  and  grief.  However,  with 
an  effort,  he  gave  his  consent  by  a  nod  of 
his  head. 

"Savonarola  then  rose  up,  and  while 
the  dying  prince  shrank  with  terror  upon 
his  bed,  the  confessor  seemed  to  rise  above 
himself  when  saying  : 

"  *  Lastly, — -yo2t  must  restore  liberty  to 
the  people  of  Florence  /  ' 

"  His  countenance  was  solemn,  his  voice 
almost  terrible,  his  eyes,  as  if  to  read  the 
answer,  remained  fixed  intently  on  those 
of  Lorenzo,  who,  collecting  all  the  strength 
that  nature  had  left  him,  turned  his  back 
on  him,  and  scornfully,  without  uttering  a 
word. 

"  And  thus  Savonarola  left  him,  with- 
out giving  him  absolution ;  and  the  Mag- 
nificent, lacerated  by  remorse,  soon  after 
breathed  his  last." 


XIV 
AS  IN    UAVID'S  DAY 


261 


XIV 
AS  IN  DAVID'S  DAY 


WE  had  talked  of  nothing  at  dinner 
but  the  invitation  received  and  ac- 
cepted that  day. 

*'  I  have  arranged  for  your  good  plea- 
sure '  A  Syrian  Evening,' "  said  the 
quaintly  pretty  note  of  the  Syrian-born 
hostess.  "We  hope  to  see  you  and  your 
friends  at  nine  o'clock  to-night." 

At  last  our  dreams  of  the  poetry  of 
motion,  as  expressed  by  the  Oriental 
dancer,  and  the  rich  imagery  of  Oriental 
improvisation,  were  to  be  fulfilled.  We 
let  our  imaginations  revel,  unchecked,  in 
our  table-talk  of  Miriam  tossing  her  tim- 
brel aloft,  leading  the  women  who  went 
after  her  with  timbrels,  and  the  triumph- 
ant chant  that  arose  above  the  ground- 
swell  of  the  Red  Sea.  Of  Jephthah's 
263 


264         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

daughter,  ringing  and  tinkhng  a  welcome 
to  the  victorious  chief.  How,  as  far  back 
as  the  days  of  Job,  the  tabret  was  in  use, 
and  men  rejoiced  with  the  timbrel  and 
harp.  A  pocket  Webster  instructed  us  as 
to  the  identity  of  the  tabret  with  the  tabor 
of  later  times,  and  that  both  meant  a 
small  drum. 

Our  antiquarian  prosed  learnedly  upon 
what  he  called  "  Nebuchadnezzar's  wind- 
and-string  band,"  enlightening  us  as  to  the 
forms  and  uses  of  the  ancient  cornet,  flute, 
harp,  sackbut,  psaltery,  and  dulcimer,  until 
affronted  by  the  amateurish  attempt  of  a 
mischief-loving  youth  to  establish  a  near 
relationship  between  sackbut  and  bagpipe. 
Whereat  the  man  of  science  waxed  wroth 
and  dumb. 

It  was,  then,  an  expectant  and  gleeful 
party  that  packed  itself  into  three  carriages 
and  left  the  walled  city  by  the  Jaffa  gate, 
turning  quickly  to  the  right  and  into  a 
maze  of  muddy  lanes,  lined  on  both  sides 
with  stone  walls  topped  with  bunches  of 
dried  thorn-bushes,  laid  in  mortar,  after 
the  manner  of  the  broken-bottle  chevaux 


As  in  David's  Day  265 

de  frise  of  more  enlightened  lands.  A 
moonlight  drive  of  half  a  mile  brought  us 
to  the  gate  of  a  garden  surrounding  one  of 
the  square  stone  houses  that  are  springing 
up  rapidly  in  the  suburbs  of  Jerusalem. 
Our  host  met  us  at  the  gate,  and  led  us 
through  the  porch  into  a  big  hall  which 
took  up  half  of  the  ground-floor  of  the 
dwelling.  We  had  but  a  hasty  view  of  a 
lighted  room  packed  with  "people  making 
a  noise,"  as  we  were  hurried  across  one 
corner  of  this  hall  and  into  an  inner  apart- 
ment, neatly  furnished  in  European  style 
as  a  parlour.  There  we  were  seated  close 
to  the  open  door  of  communication  with 
the  larger  room.  All  the  light  in  the 
parlour  came  through  this  door,  and  we 
now  perceived  that  the  men  of  our  com- 
pany were  theoretically  invisible,  or,  at 
best,  represented  to  the  revellers  by  their 
astral  bodies. 

The  merry-makers  were  all  women,  and 
a  certain  fine  unconsciousness  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  foreign  spectators  was  in- 
imitable and  impressive.  Not  an  eye 
wandered  in  our  direction,  although  two 


266         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

foreign  consuls,  whom  most  of  the  as- 
sembl)'  must  have  known  by  sight,  were 
with  us,  and  a  young  English  traveller,  as 
brawny  as  Hercules  and  handsome  as 
Apollo,  leaned  against  the  door-frame 
just  where  the  light  from  the  outer  room 
threw  his  profile  into  bold  relief  upon  the 
dark  background. 

The  noise,  unabated  by  our  intrusion, 
went  on  steadily  when  we  were  seated 
and  could  define  and  classify  the  hubbub. 
The  performers,  and  a  few  old  women 
with  babies  in  their  laps,  sat  flat  upon  the 
matted  floor,  their  feet  tucked  under  them. 
All  were  in  gala  dress — jewelry  gleaming 
upon  arms,  hair,  and  hands.  The  married 
women  wore  the  picturesque  mcndel.  This 
is  a  square  of  thin,  flowered — embroidered 
or  plain — coloured  muslin,  edged  with  silk 
lace.  When  the  wearer  is  indoors,  one- 
half  of  the  mcndel  is  folded  back,  kerchief- 
wise,  upon  the  top  of  her  head.  When 
she  goes  abroad,  she  pulls  this  over  her 
face,  making  a  triangular  veil  through 
which  she  can  see,  but  which  masks  her 
features. 


As  in  David's  Day  267 

Each  of  the  younger  women  had  a 
musical  instrument  of  some  sort.  A  min- 
iature drum, — which  we  took  to  be  the 
"  tabor  "  or  "  tabret," — set  on  the  floor  in 
front  of  her  and  beaten  with  the  knuckles, 
was  the  most  popular.  There  were  also 
tambourines  (timbrels  ?)  and  cymbals,  and 
something,  not  unlike  a  mandolin  in  shape, 
with  short,  taut  strings  that  twanged  as 
shrilly  as  cicadae,  above  the  shallow  roll  of 
drum  and  tambourine. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Mischief-lover, 
meditatively,  with  a  demure  glance  at  the 
Antiquarian,  "  I — am — quite — sure — that 
those  are  sackbuts !  Or,  maybe,  dulci- 
mers." 

There  was  no  time  in  the  "  music." 
Our  ears  presently  discerned  rhythm  ;  a 
wave-like  vibration  in  the  drumming,  hum- 
ming, and  shrilling,  that  doubtless  re- 
presented time  to  the  initiated.  After 
the  hostess  had  made  us  welcome,  she 
took  her  stand  in  a  cleared  space  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall.  Holding  a  tambourine, 
and  shaking  it  as  she  moved,  with  now  and 
then  a  touch  of  a  deft  thumb  to  the  tight 


268         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  head,"  she  began  to  dance,  very  slowly 
and  gracefully,  advancing  a  few  steps  and 
receding  as  many,  smiling  and  beckoning 
to  one  and  another  of  the  cross-legged 
figures.  She  kept  this  up  for  several 
minutes  before  a  plump,  black-eyed  little 
body  arose  from  a  corner  and  obeyed  the 
mute  invitation.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
bright  blue  silk  gown,  unpicturesquely 
Parisian  in  cut  and  fit.  The  Oriental 
element  was  supplied  by  the  blue  inendel, 
and  by  ropes  of  gold  chains  dangling  below 
her  girdle,  which  was  also  of  gold,  and 
flexible  like  the  fine  meshes  of  a  coat  of 
mail. 

Taking  the  tambourine  from  the  other's 
hand,  she  went  through  the  same/^i-  sctil ; 
five  or  six  steps  forward,  as  many  back- 
ward, varied  by  swayings  of  the  body 
above  the  waist-line,  whirling  the  tambour- 
ine about  her  head,  and  shaking  it  to  the 
right  and  left.  The  steps  were  a  shufifie, 
her  feet  never  leaving  the  floor.  While 
she  danced,  the  "  rubadub  "  of  tabrets  and 
tambourines,  the  twanging  of  the  mando- 
lins, and  the  measured  clapping  of  hands 


As  in  David's  Day  269 

("  For  all  the  world  like  '  Pease  porridge 
hot,'  "  said  the  Mischief-lover  in  my  ear) 
went  on  with  increasing  fervour. 

"  Sometimes  they  are  really  intoxicated 
by  the  music,"  said  a  consul's  wife,  who 
had  lived  in  Jerusalem  ten  years.  "  I 
have  felt  the  exhilaration  myself  upon 
several  occasions.  There  is  something  in 
the  rhythmic  beat  that  gets  into  the  blood 
and  the  head." 

It  did  not  get  into  ours.  Indeed,  the 
noise  was  becoming  tiresome  and  the 
spectacle  monotonous  when — after  a  suc- 
cession of  eight  or  ten  women  had  had 
the  floor,  each  repeating  her  predecessor's 
motions — the  hostess  again  appeared,  and 
clapped  her  hands  sharply  three  times. 
Servants  answered  the  signal,  and  passed, 
first  to  us,  then  to  the  performers,  trays 
containing  tiny  cups  of  black  coffee,  glasses 
of  native  wine,  and  wedges  of  layer-cake, 
filled  with  dead-sweet  conserves  that  made 
the  wine  taste  as  sour  as  vinegar. 

While  the  refreshments  were  going 
around,  a  woman's  voice  was  raised  from 
the  back  of  the  hall.     She  was  young  and 


270         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

rather  comely,  and  her  scarlet  skirt  did 
not  quite  hide  a  pair  of  trim  feet  encased 
in  white  silk  stockings  and  red  slippers. 
Raisinor  her  tabret  to  the  level  of  her  fore- 
head,  and  dealing  it  a  smart  thump  to  at- 
tract attention,  she  uttered  in  a  high 
monotone  a  string  of  rapid  Arabic,  getting 
in,  I  should  say,  fifty  words  between  every 
two  breaths,  and  winding  up  all  with  a 
screeched  '' a-a-a-h-h  /  "  of  which  written 
words  can  give  no  adequate  idea. 

Our  dragoman  interpreted  the  outburst. 
It  was  a  florid  panegyric  upon  our  host, 
his  many  virtues,  personal  gifts,  and  worthy 
deeds,  and  the  expression  of  a  hope  that 
he  and  his  posterity  would  live  forever. 

A  second  breathless  and  headlong  reci- 
tation from  another  woman  did  the  decent 
and  dutiful  thing  by  the  hostess,  who, 
being  in  sight,  waved  and  kissed  her  hand 
in  acknowledgment.  Other  personages 
whom  the  company  delighted  to  honour 
were  dry-toasted  in  due  order.  Each  im- 
provisation ended  with  the  unwritable, 
ear-piercing  '' a-a-a-h-h  ! ''  always  running 
up  the  scale  in  precisely  the  same  key  and 


As  in  Davids  Day  271 

ending  abruptly  upon  the  highest  note  of 
the  gamut. 

The  hostess  brought  forward  next  a 
new  and  striking  figure. 

"A  distinguished  professional,"  com- 
mented the  interpreter.  "  She  has  been 
married  twice,  both  times  to  white  men, 
who  were  won  by  her  remarkable  talents." 

Her  good  looks  had  no  share  in  the  con- 
quest. She  was  a  Nubian — full-blooded, 
as  was  proved  by  her  coal-black  skin  and 
woolly  hair — broad  of  shoulder,  and  long 
of  limb.  Her  gown  of  dark  blue  cloth  was 
girdled  loosely  with  a  crimson  sash,  and 
fell  in  easy  folds  to  her  feet.  She  looked 
like  what  was  called  in  ante-bellum  par- 
lance, "a  field-hand."  From  every  side 
of  the  great  hall  arose  a  wild  clamour  of 
beaten  drums,  and  clanging  cymbals, 
shaken  tambourines,  and  clapping  hands, 
an  accompaniment  that  was  not  inter- 
mitted through  what  followed.  The  Nu- 
bian smiled  widely  upon  her  admirers, 
squatted  upon  the  mat,  and  began  to  bat- 
ter a  small  drum  furiously,  rocking  from 
side  to  side,  then  back  and  forth,  rolling 


2  72         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

up  her  eyes,  and  showing  a  double  row  of 
white  teeth  in  a  grimace  of  cumulative 
ecstasy.  Bounding  suddenly  to  her  full 
height  by  one  surprising  effort  of  her  sup- 
ple body,  not  touching  the  floor  with  her 
hands,  she  entered  upon  a  series  of  spiral 
exercises,  keeping  her  feet  perfectly  still 
as  a  pivotal  centre,  and  swinging  outward 
from  them.  The  tabret  was  pounded 
madly  all  the  time. 

This  dizzying  exhibition  ended,  she  drew 
a  white  handkerchief  from  her  bosom, 
wrapped  it  about  her  left  arm,  and  went 
through  the  motions  of  dandling  and 
hushing  a  child  to  sleep,  crooning  a  fan- 
tastic, tuneless  lullaby,  and  shuffling  her 
feet  in  time  with  it.  Waking  the  baby 
with  a  genuine  negro  ''  ki-yi  ! "  and  shak- 
ing the  handkerchief  into  the  air,  she 
danced  to  a  more  lively  measure,  throw- 
ing herself  forward,  then  backward,  farther 
and  farther  each  time,  until  a  topple  and 
fall  seemed  inevitable.  In  one  of  the  for- 
ward inclinations  she  dexterously  spread 
her  handkerchief  upon  the  floor,  and  in 
another  picked  it  up  with  her  teeth,  a  feat 


A   SYRIAN    PROFESSIONAL   DANCER   AND    MUSICIAN. 
From  photograph  in  Christian  Herald  Collection. 


As  in  David's  Day  273 

that  elicited  deafening  applause.  A  final 
figure  of  the  so-called  dance  bore  some 
resemblance,  as  I  was  told  afterwards,  to 
the  objectionable  dansede  ventre.  In  com- 
fortable ignorance  of  the  circumstance  we 
looked  on,  unmoved  and  unsympathetic, 
while  the  assembly,  lined  up  three  deep 
against  the  walls  of  the  central  hall,  vented 
their  delight  in  louder  and  faster  drum- 
mings  and  clapping  of  hands. 

A  laugh,  smothered  by  politeness  as 
soon  as  it  was  born,  rippled  through  the 
group  of  unseen  lookers-on  as  the  hand- 
some Hercules  in  the  doorway  turned  to 
say,  sotto  voce,  but  energetically,  while  the 
Nubian  was  in  the  thick  of  her  triumphs  : 

"  By  Jove  !  what  a  fool  King  Herod 
must  have  been  !  " 

Before  twelve  o'clock,  set  bv  us  as  the 
hour  of  departure,  curiosity  had  given 
place  to  ennui,  and  ennui  deepened  into 
boredom  of  a  pronounced  type.  We  were 
glad  to  make  our  exit  with  the  same  pre- 
tence of  stealth  that  had  attended  our 
entrance.  The  cool,  delicious  dampness 
of  a  Syrian  winter  night  that  met  us  with- 


2  74         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

out  made  us  comprehend  what  the  atmos- 
phere  had  been  within.  The  consul's 
wife  told  us,  on  the  way  home,  that  the 
scene  we  were  leaving  behind  us  repre- 
sented all  that  the  Syrian  woman  ever 
knows  of  a  "  revel."  She  never  speaks  to 
a  man  until  she  is  married,  unless  he  be 
her  near  kinsman.  After  marriage,  even 
stricter  laws  govern  her  association  with 
the  other  sex.  They  have  no  dancing,  or 
conversation,  or  dinner-parties  where  men 
and  women  meet  on  equal  and  pleasant 
social  terms  ;  no  libraries  and  no  clubs 
where  women  can  acquire  knowledge  and 
exchange  views  upon  higher  topics  than 
the  details  of  their  dull,  eventless  lives. 
The  fifty-odd  women  we  had  left  sitting 
cross-legged  on  the  matting,  their  backs 
against  the  wall,  their  tabrets  on  the  floor 
in  front  of  them,  just  as  we  had  found 
them  three  hours  before,  would  talk  of 
this  evening  of  dissipation  for  weeks  to 
come. 

The  Mischief-lover's  face  was  sombre 
in  the  moonlight  ;  his  tone  was  regretful. 

"  The  evening  has  been  full  of  disillu- 


As  in  David's  Day  275 

sions,"  he  lamented.  "  And  I  'm  afraid,  if 
the  truth  could  be  known,  we  should  learn 
that  the  women  who  came  out,  singing 
and  dancing,  to  meet  King  Saul  with  tab- 
rets  and  other  instruments,  and  answered 
one  another  as  they  played,  rattled  off, — 
'  Saul-hath -slain-his-thousands-and-David- 
his-ten-thousands-rt;-^-/^-/^  /  '  just  as  those 
girls  '  said  their  pieces.'  The  East  is  a 
changeless  land,  you  know — more  's  the 
pity ! "  • 

At  noon  on  the  morrow  we  sent  a  note 
of  thanks  to  our  hostess.  The  messengfer 
brought  back  word  that  she  was  not  yet 
out  of  bed.  The  fun  (?)  had  raged  on 
until  7ime  d clock  a.m.,  and  the  gracious 
mistress  of  ceremonies  was  "  somewhat 
fatigued." 


XV 

IN    VILLETTE 


277 


XV 

IN    VILLETTE 

THE  building  in  the  Rue  d'Isabelle 
will  shortly  be  pulled  down." 

"  The  many  admirers  of  Charlotte 
Bronte  will  regret  to  learn  that  the  Pen- 
sionnat  Heger,  made  famous  by  her  novel 
Villette,  has  been  demolished  to  make 
way  for  a  row  of  modern  houses." 

Both  of  these  items  were  read  by  us  on 
the  steamer  which  brought  us  from  Amer- 
ica, four  months  ago.  As  newspaper 
paragraphs  go,  they  should  have  had 
weight  in  directing  the  trend  of  our  roam- 
ings  on  this,  our  first  day  in  Brussels. 
Had  our  faith  in  them  been  positive  it  is 
doubtful  if  we  should  have  come  to  the 
miniature  Paris.  Waterloo  was  not  an 
irresistible  attraction,  nor  did  the  lace 
warehouses  turn  the  scales  of  our  unfriv- 


28o  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

olous  mood.  We  are  here  because  Brus- 
sels is  "  Yillette,"  and  an  impulse  we  are 
ready,  in  the  end,  to  respect  as  inspira- 
tion, moved  us  to  see,  with  bodily  vision, 
a  locality  familiar  to  the  mind's  eye,  to 
wit,  Madame  Beck's  "  Pensionnat  de 
Demoiselles,"  in  the  "  Rue  Fossette." 

We  called  it  by  the  every-day  name  of 
Rue  d'Isabelle  in  consulting  the  feminine 
Autocrat  of  our  pension  dejeuner-table,  a 
suave  Presence  of  boundless  information 
and  limited  English  vocabulary.  She  took 
refuge  in  Brussels-French  in  the  desire  to 
be  fluent,  yet  explicit.  She  had  heard 
of  Charlotte  Bronte's  historical  (!)  novel, 
and  that  the  scene  was  laid  in  the  respect- 
able and  eminent  Pensionnat  of  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Heger.  In  passing,  she 
might  be  permitted  to  say  that  the  Pension- 
nat was  in  the  Avenue  Louise,  not  in  the 
Rue  d'Isabelle.  The  trifling  mistake  was 
quite  pardonable  in  Mesdames.  Both  were 
the  names  of  women.  Madame  Heger 
died  in  1889,  and  it  is  now  three  years 
since  the  lamented  demise  of  Monsieur 
Heger  at  the  great  age  of  eighty-seven. 


In  Villette  281 

Mademoiselle,  their  accomplished  daugh- 
ter, still  conducts  the  school  for  young 
ladies  in  the  Avenue  Louise.  If  Mes- 
dames  would  have  the  goodness  to  look 
from  the  window  of  the  salon,  she — the 
Autocrat — would  take  pleasure  in  indicat- 
ing the  ver)^  handsome  house. 

It  is  a  handsome  house,  large,  square, 
white,  with  a  plentiful  complement  of 
windows,  a  very  model  of  monumental 
and  prosperous  respectability,  and  we 
forthwith  disbelieved  in  it  with  all  our 
might.  The  situation  upon  the  corner  of 
a  spick-and-span  Boulevard  gave  the  lie 
direct  to  our  preconceptions  of  the  som- 
bre age  of  Madame  Beck's  Pensionnat. 
When  inquiries  of  neighbouring  shop- 
keepers extracted  the  admission  that  there 
was  not,  and  never  had  been,  a  Rue  d'lsa- 
belle  within  two  miles  of  Avenue  Louise, 
we  should  have  given  up  the  quest  in  de- 
spair, but  for  a  conviction  that  would 
not  down  at  talk  of  demolition  and  over- 
turning and  recasting  of  streets  and 
houses.  In  the  persuasion,  as  irrational 
as  it  was  obstinate,  that  we  knew  Brussels 


282         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

as  Villette  better  than  our  well-informed 
landlady,  we  repudiated  her  pilotage  and 
trusted  ourselves  recklessly  to  the  chart 
furnished  by  Charlotte  herself. 

Lucy  Snowe  had  followed  Dr.  John — 
then  a  stranger  who  spoke  English  and 
offered  to  guide  her  to  her  inn — "  through 
the  double  gloom  of  trees  and  fog,"  across 
a  park,  and,  losing  her  bearings  after  he 
left  her,  strayed  to  a  flight  of  steps,  which 
she  descended.  "In  a  very  quiet  and 
comparatively  clean  and  well-paved  street," 
was  the  Pensionnat. 

Our  first  step  was  to  find  the  Park.  It 
was  half-an-hour's  drive  from  the  square 
white  house  on  the  spick-and-span  Boule- 
vard. Let  me  say  here,  in  justice  to  the 
Autocrat,  that  the  building  in  question,  as 
transpired  subsequently,  really  is  the  Pen- 
sionnat Heger  and  is  presided  over  by 
Madame  Beck's  daughters.  If  we  had 
sought  information  there  touching  the 
ci-devant  pupil-teacher  of  their  lady-moth- 
er's reign,  would  we  have  met  Fifine 
and  D^siree  ?  Madame  refused  to  see 
Mrs.   Gaskell  when  she  would  have  **  in- 


In  Villette  283 

terviewed  "  her  on  the  subject  of  Char- 
lotte's residence  in  her  school,  Villette,  in 
spite  of  the  author's  emphatic  interdiction, 
having  been  translated  into  French  by 
that  time,  and  read  by  Madame  and  her 
circle.  The  probability  that  the  aversion 
to  the  Brontes  and  all  that  pertained  to 
them  is  hereditary,  forbade  the  thought 
of  application  to  the  Demoiselles  Heger 
in  our  dilemma. 

The  Park  is  bright  and  dry  to-day,  yet 
a  subtle  sense  of  familiarity  with  trees 
and  walks  besets  us  as  we  enter  it.  The 
belief  that  we  are  following  John  Bretton's 
"  frank  tread  "  and  Lucy's  soundless  foot- 
steps, takes  fast  hold  of  us.  Without  at- 
tempting to  analyse  the  sensation,  we 
quicken  our  pace  and  are  led  straight  to 
the  top  of  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  with  a 
drop  of,  perhaps,  a  dozen  feet,  into  a  quiet 
street,  and  at  the  bottom  a  long  block  of 
houses  which  we  immediately  identify  as 
the  "  Pensionnat  de  Demoiselles." 

Fm-de-silcle  scepticism  halts  us  even 
here.  Instead  of  going  straight  to  our 
work,  we  turn  weakly  aside  into  the  Eng- 


284         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

lish  Bank  close  to  the  short  stairway,  and 
have  the  Q-ra.ce  to  blush  at  the  uninten- 
tional  rebuke  of  our  lack  of  faith  in  our 
"  inward  leading,"  conveyed  in  the  civil 
reply  to  our  inquiries. 

"  You  have  only  to  go  down  those  steps 
and  you  are  there  !  The  house  is  now  oc- 
cupied by  a  public  school.  Pulled  down  ! 
Bless  me  !  nothing  of  the  sort !  It  stands 
just  where  it  did,  and  as  it  did,  fifty  years 
ago." 

By  the  means  truthfully  recorded  here, 
we  have  arrived  at  our  goal,  Villette  and 
Lucy  Snowe  are  more  trustworthy  ciceroni 
than  Brussels-bred  Autocrat  and  shop- 
keepers. 

Our  ring  at  the  door  is  answered  by  a 
black-eyed  sub-teacher,  whose  position  is 
precisely  what  Charlotte's  was  during  her 
second  term  at  the  Pensionnat  Heger, 
after  she  had  returned  without  Emily,  and 
alone.  The  guide  is  polite  and  willing, 
and,  as  we  have  chanced  to  call  upon  a 
fcsta  holiday,  is  cordially  at  our  service. 
As  she  does  not  speak  English,  she  has 
never  read   Villette^  she  says,  and  we  re- 


In  Villette  285 

frain  from  allusion  to  the  obnoxious  French 
edition, 

"  But  I  know  the  book  quite  well,"  she 
continues.  "  So  many  English  and  Ameri- 
cans— many  more  Americans  than  Eng- 
lish— come  here  every  year,  and  talk,  oh, 
so  much  !  of  Mademoiselle  Lucie  and 
Madame  Beck  and  Mademoiselle  Char- 
lotte, and  the  Ghost  " —  laughing  brightly 
— "  that  I  seem  to  myself  to  have  read  of 
them  all." 

In  forecasting  this  visit,  our  minds  were 
taken  up  by  thoughts  of  the  two  Yorkshire 
girls,  abruptly  transplanted  to  the  foreign 
pensionnat,  as  out-of-place,  and  as  ill-at- 
ease  as  would  be  two  larks  snared  upon 
the  Haworth  moors  and  kept  in  a  Belgian 
cage.  We  lost  Charlotte  and  Emily  as 
soon  as  we  struck  upon  Dr.  Bretton's  track, 
and  felt  the  presence  of  the  pale  mute 
shadow  that  "  would  have  followed  that 
frank  tread  through  continual  night,  to 
the  world's  end." 

I  have  always  maintained  that  Lucy 
was  more  truly  in  love  with  this  "  true 
young     English     gentleman,"    with     his 


286         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

"  beamy  head,"  "  bonny  wells  of  eyes,  arch 
mouth,  and  gay  smile,"  than  with  the  "  dark 
little  man,  pungent  and  austere,"  who,  even 
to  her  would-be  partial  eyes,  "  seemed  a 
harsh  apparition,  with  his  close-shorn  black 
head,  broad,  sallow  brow,  thin  cheek,  wide 
and  quivering  nostril."  Affection  for  the 
one  was  a  glad,  spontaneous  upspringing ; 
for  the  other,  a  matter  of  painstaking  cul- 
tivation. Long  after  she  believed  that  she 
had  found  her  soul-counterpart  in  the  acerb 
Professor,  the  confession  escapes  her  in 
meditating  upon  what  she  had  denied  to 
her  trusting  heart : 

"  Was  this  feeling  dead  ?  I  do  not  know, 
but  it  was  buried.  Sometimes  I  thought 
the  tomb  unquiet  and  dreamed  strangely  of 
disturbed  earth,  and  of  hair  still  golden  and 
living,  obtruded  through  coffin  chinks." 

The  man  she  loved  and  the  man  who 
loved  her,  keep  step  with  us  in  our  pass- 
age through  the  corridors  and  the  class- 
rooms where  Lucy  gave  English  lessons, 
and  conquered  the  mutinous  "  titled  belles 
in  the  first  row  who  had  sat  down  prede- 
termined  that  a   bonne  d'enfants  should 


In  Villette  287 

not  be  set  over  them,"  and  locked  up 
Catalonian  Dolores  in  the  book-closet, 
still  to  be  seen.  Bare,  clean,  and  comfort- 
less as  is  the  suite,  it  was  yet  drearier  be- 
fore the  larger  rooms  were  divided  by 
partitions  for  the  convenience  of  the  pre- 
sent occupants.  The  long  classe,  cold  at 
early  morning  and  at  night,  "  with  the 
nipping  severity  of  a  Continental  winter," 
which  Lucy  paced  fast  to  keep  herself 
warm  when  the  "  popish  lecture pieiise  from 
that  guilty  old  book  containing  legends  of 
the  saints,  was  brought  out  in  the  only 
warm  place  in  the  house,  the  refectory — 
the  scene  of  the  Etude  du  soir" — has 
been  cut  up  into  three  compartments.  It 
was  her  chosen  haunt  when  she  was  off 
duty,  her  promenade,  her  study,  her  ora- 
tory, her  resort,  when  physical  exercise 
and  solitude  were  absolute  needs  to  the 
overwrought  spirit.  She  was  "fortu- 
nate if  the  moon  shone,  and,  if  there 
were  stars,  soon  reconciled  to  their  dim 
gleam,  or  even  to  the  total  eclipse  of 
their  absence." 

At  least  we  can  look  out  of  the  windows 


288  Where  Ghosts  Walk 

through  which  their  Hght  crossed  her 
lonely  beat.  In  the  refectory  we  provoke 
the  curiosity  of  our  little  companion  by 
setting  the  stage  for  the  ridiculous  exhi- 
bition of  "the  wicked,  venomous  little 
man's"  temper,  on  the  evening  when 
*'  Mees  Lucie"  "swept  away  her  working 
materials  to  clear  space  for  his  book,  and 
withdrew  herself  to  make  room  for  his 
person,"  and,  "  flint  and  tinder  that  he 
was  !  he  struck  and  took  fire  directly." 

How  well  we  know  it  all !  and  how 
present  and  vivid  is  the  reproduction  here 
in  the  marble-paved  room,  looking  out 
upon  the  garden  which  we  are  reserving 
for  the  last  and  choicest  morccau  of  the 
continual  feast ! 

Before  tasting  this  we  mount  to  the 
dormitories.  Our  vivacious  conductor  is 
eager  to  show  us  where,  in  the  now  empty 
room, — all  the  pupils  in  the  public  school 
being  ''  cxterncs^' — Charlotte  and  Emily 
Bronte's  beds  used  to  stand.  In  consid- 
eration of  the  "  reserved  habits  of  the 
English,"  they  were  allowed  to  draw  a 
curtain    between    that    extremity    of    the 


In  Villette  289 

large  apartment  and  the  twenty  beds  that 
filled  the  remaining  space. 

We  refuse  to  see  anybody  but  Lucy 
Snowe,  lonely  and  wakeful,  while 
"stretched  on  the  nineteen  beds  lay  nine- 
teen forms  at  full  length,  and  motion- 
less "  ;  Lucy,  battling,  in  the  desperation 
of  a  drowning  wretch,  with  grim  Reason, 
who  bade  her  put  at  once  out  of  her  mind, 
and  finally,  the  vision  of  golden-haired 
John  Bretton,  "  good  and  sweet,  but  not 
for  her,"  and  revel  no  more  in  the 
"strange,  sweet  insanity,"  luring  her  to 
forgetfulness  of  the  truth  that  she  "was 
born  only  to  work  for  a  piece  of  bread ; 
to  await  the  pains  of  death,  and  steadily, 
through  all  life,  to  despond."  To  the 
dormitory  she  stole  with  Dr.  John's  first 
letter  in  her  hand,  "  in  haste  and  trem- 
bling lest  Madame  should  creep  up-stairs 
and  spy  her,"  and  "  folding  the  treasure, 
yet  all  fair  and  inviolate,  in  silver  paper, 
put  it  into  a  casket  and  the  casket  into  a 
drawer  of  the  bureau  "  (we  designate  the 
very  corner  then  filled  by  the  bureau), 
"  shut  up  box  and  drawer,  reclosed,   re- 


290         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

locked  the  dormitory,  and  descended  to 
classc,  feeling  as  if  fairy-tales  were  true, 
and  fairy  gifts  no  dream." 

The  dormitory,  where  we  select  her 
"  own  casement  "  out  of  which  she  "  leaned 
on  summer  evenings,  as  ever  solitary,  to 
look  out  upon  the  gay  little  city,  and  hear 
the  band  play  in  the  park,  thinking  mean- 
time my  own  thoughts,  living  my  own  life 
in  my  own  still  shadow-world." 

We  open  the  casement  to  see  the  ledge 
on  which  she  sat  through  the  thunder- 
storm that  awoke  all  the  sleepers  in  the 
dormitory.  While  the  rest  knelt  around 
the  night-lamp,  praying  aloud,  she  re- 
mained without,  upon  her  perch,  her  feet 
upon  the  roof  of  a  lower  adjoining  build- 

"  It  was  wet,  it  was  wild,  it  was  pitch- 
dark.  I  could  not  go  in.  Too  resistless 
was  the  delight  of  staying  with  the  wild 
hour,  black,  and  full  of  thunder,  pealing 
out  such  an  ode  as  lanoruaore  never  deliv- 
ered  to  man." 

"The  attic  was  no  pleasant  place,"  we 
quote    in    English    on    entering   what    is 


In  Villctte  291 

gained  by  another  flight  of  stairs.  "In 
summer  weather  it  was  hot  as  Africa,  in 
winter  it  was  always  cold  as  Greenland. 
Well  was  it  known  to  be  tenanted  by  rats, 
by  black  beetles  and  by  cockroaches — 
nay,  rumour  affirmed  that  the  ghostly 
Nun  of  the  garden  had  once  been  seen 
there." 

The  sub-teacher's  laugh  is  as  ready  as 
light.  She  has  caught  the  sense  of  the 
last  words.  Tripping  over  the  dusty, 
echoing  floor,  she  points  to  a  small  win- 
dow or  glazed  trap-door  in  the  sloping 
roof,  dim  and  cobwebby,  for  the  attic  is 
disused  now,  even  as  a  lumber  room  : 

''Par  /<i/"  she  says,  and  we  see  that 
the  trick  of  the  pseudo  ghost  is  known  to 
her. 

Lucy  did  not  believe  in  the  Nun  when 
she  "  opened  the  skylight,  dragged  a 
large,  empty  chest  beneath  it,  and,  hav- 
ing mounted  upon  a  smaller  box,  as- 
cended this  species  of  extempore  throne," 
and  began  the  study  of  the  part  forced 
upon  her  by  the  remorseless  Professor. 
But  she  saw  the  apparition  on  the  winter 


292         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

night  when  she  sought  the  "  deep,  black, 
cold  garret,"  to  read,  in  the  solitude  she 
could  get  nowhere  else,  the  letter  she  had 
locked  away  at  noon,  the  seal  unbroken. 

"  That  present  moment  had  no  pain,  no 
blot,  no  want.  Full,  pure,  perfect,  it 
deeply  blessed  me.  .  .  .  Dr.  John ! 
you  pained  me  afterwards.  Forgiven  be 
every  ill — freely  forgiven — for  the  sake  of 
that  one  dear,  remembered  good." 

Then,  a  movement  in  the  obscure  re- 
cess behind  her,  and — "  I  saw  in  the  middle 
of  that  ghostly  chamber  a  figure  all  black 
or  white ;  the  skirts  straight,  narrow, 
black ;  the  head  bandaged,  veiled,  white." 

Lucy  !  still,  Lucy  !  and  nowhere  are  her 
being  and  her  presence  a  more  vital  actu- 
ality than  in  the  garden  behind  the  low 
pile  of  school  buildings.  The  grounds  of 
the  Pensionnat  are  no  longer  spacious. 
At  least  one-half  of  the  original  garden 
has  been  cut  off  and  built  up  with  new 
houses.  The  forbidden  walk  {l^alUe  dd- 
feiidue)  remains  in  part,  although  Methu- 
selah, the  ancient  pear-tree — "dead"  in 
Lucy's  and   Charlotte's  time,   "all  but  a 


In  Villettc  293 

few  boughs,  which  still  faithfully  renewed 
their  perfumed  snow  in  spring,  and  their 
honey-sweet  pendants  in  autumn  " — per- 
ished down  to  the  root  long  ago.  The 
large  berceaii,  or  arbour,  shaded  by  the 
acacia,  is  gone,  but  the  trellised  walk 
skirting  the  high,  grey  wall,  "where  jas- 
mine and  ivy  met  and  were  married,"  is 
the  same  in  which  Charlotte  and  Emily 
took  their  silent  "  constitutional "  in  all 
weathers.  Here  Lucy  encountered  Ma- 
dame Beck  in  her  nightly  round  of 
surveillance,  after  the  casket  and  note 
had  fallen  "from  the  window  high  in  the 
wall  of  the  adjacent  college  buildings " 
(we  look  up  at  the  identical  casement), 
and  Dr.  John,  having  seen  it  dropped, 
came  to  hlint  for  it  and  to  save  Ginevra 
Fanshawe  from  disgrace. 

Villette  is  not  fiction,  as  far  as  the  set- 
ting of  the  story  is  concerned.  Every 
feature  of  house  and  environs  is  drawn 
with  the  fidelity  of  a  photograph,  taken 
by  an  artist  and  developed  by  an  adept. 
That  Madame  Beck,  M.  Paul  Emmanuel, 
and  Ginevra  Fanshawe  were  painted  from, 


294         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

and  to,  the  life,  we  are  informed  by  Char- 
lotte's schoolfellows  and  others  who  knew 
the  unconscious  sitters.  Does  this  ac- 
count for  the  spell  that  has  brought  us  to 
the  spot  and  makes  us  live  out  the  won- 
derful tale  now  that  we  are  here  ? 

The  book  is  a  unique.  For  actors,  we 
have  the  teachers  and  pupils  of  the  most 
conventional  of  conventional  and  Conti- 
nental boarding-schools.  In  a  confiden- 
tial home-letter,  Charlotte  writes  of  these, 
her  associates  : 

"  Amongst  120  persons  which  compose 
the  daily  population  of  this  house,  I  can 
discern  only  one  or  two  who  deserve  any- 
thing like  regard.  They  have  not  in- 
tellect or  politeness,  or  good  nature,  or 
good  feeling.  They  are  nothing.  They 
have  no  sensations  themselves,  and  they 
excite  none.  .  .  .  The  phlegm  that 
thickens  their  blood  is  too  gluey  to  boil'' 

For  theatre,  Villctte  had  the  four  walls 
of  the  Pensionnat,  and  this  walled-in  gar- 
den. We  have,  it  is  true,  infrequent 
glimpses  of  streets  in  the  old  parts  of  the 
then  small   city  of   Brussels,  of   La  Ter- 


In  Villette  295 

rasse,  the  Bretton  country-house,  and  the 
salon  of  the  de  Bassompierres  in  the  Hotel 
Crecy,  but  the  action  centres  in  this  dull 
house  and  in  the  grounds — "  a  trite,  down- 
trodden place  in  the  broad,  vulgar  middle 
of  the  day," — and  at  all  seasons  tamely  un- 
interesting to  all  but  Lucy  Snowe,  and  to 
the  oenius  that  conceived  and  brouQrht  her 
forth.  Villette  was  written  some  }'ears  after 
Charlotte's  connection  with  the  school, 
as  pupil  and  as  teacher,  ceased.  It  is  not 
possible  for  one  who  has  read  the  book  to 
visit  Pensionnat  and  garden  without  com- 
prehending that  it  "came"  to  her  here. 

After  Emily  went  back  to  Yorkshire, 
never  to  return  to  the  hated  school-life, 
her  sister  seemed,  to  the  few  who  cared  to 
notice  her,  utterly  alone,  her  evening  strolls 
in  the  "  forbidden  walk,"  the  twilight  rev- 
eries upon  the  rustic  seat  at  the  far  end  of 
"  the  strait  and  narrow  path," — the  bench 
she  had  "reclaimed  from  mould  and  funofi  " 
— melancholy  and  purposeless  enough  to 
sink  the  foreign  girl  into  the  slough  of 
imbecility,  or  to  drive  her  mad.  Between 
her  and  these  alternative  fates  stood  Lucy 


296         Where  Ghosts  Walk 

and  her  story,  with  aU  that  entered  into 
the  growth  thereof. 

"In  catalepsy  and  a  dead  trance  I  stu- 
diously held  the  quick  of  my  nature,"  are 
words  she  put  into  Lucy's  mouth. 

The  quick  of  Charlotte's  nature  was  in- 
stinct with  potent  germs  of  thought.  At 
eventide,  and  in  the  noon  and  holiday 
lingerings  in  the  sequestered  alley,  shunned 
by  other  teachers,  and  prohibited  to  the 
scholars  because  of  the  college  boarding- 
houses  flanking  it — the  still  air  took  life  ; 
at  the  lifting  of  the  wand  she  alone  knew 
that  she  carried,  and  even  she  did  not 
value  aright,  the  dusky  solitude  was  peo- 
pled with  those  who  left  no  room  for  re- 
gret at  the  loss  of  visible  companionship. 
She  tells  it  all  to  us  in  pages  that  sparkle 
with  humour  and  beautiful  fancies,  and 
glow  with  passion. 

Legends  more  than  half  forgotten,  even 
in  Brussels,  connect  the  sunken  square 
about  the  Pensionnat  Heger  with  tourna- 
ments and  knightly  vows  and  mediaeval 
romances  of  various  complexions. 

"  There  was  a  tradition  that   Madame 


In  Villette  297 

Beck's  house  had,  in  old  days,  been  a  con- 
vent. That,  in  years  gone  by — before  the 
city  had  overspread  this  quarter,  and  when 
it  was  tilled  ground  and  avenue,  and  such 
deep  and  leafy  seclusion  as  ought  to  em- 
bosom a  religious  house — Something  had 
happened  on  this  site,  which,  arousing 
fear  and  inflicting  horror,  had  left  to  the 
place  the  inheritance  of  a  Ghost  Story." 

The  trivial  circumstance  that,  fifty-seven 
years  ago,  a  country  parson's  daughter, 
plain,  provincial  in  dress  and  carriage,  and 
already  in  her  thirtieth  year,  studied, 
worked,  and  suffered  in  this  ugly  range  of 
houses,  and  dreamed  her  own  dreams  in 
the  old  garden,  now  chill  with  the  shadow 
of  encroaching  walls,  makes  all  that  went 
before  her  residence  here  like  a  rubbed 
pencil-sketch  set  beside  a  canvas  eloquent 
with  the  imagery  of  genius,  transcribed  by 
a  master  magician's  hand. 

THE    END 


INDEX 


Adriatic,  The,  190,  201,  225 
Agolanti,  Francesco,  152,  156,  157,  160 
Alfieri,  220 
AHghieri,  Dante  {sc-^  Dante) 

Jacopo,  98,  100 

Pietro,  q8,  100 

The,  86,  91,  92 

Alloway  Kirkyard,  21 
Altinum,  187 
Amadori,  Padre,  223 
Amieri,  Bernard,  157 

House  of,  154 

Angelo,  Michael,  85 
Argyle,  Countess  of,  4 
Arthur's  Seat,  10 
Ashburton,  Lady,  76,  77 

Lord,  72 

Avenue  Louise,  280,  281 
Avignon,  141 

Ayr,  public-house,  26 
Ayrshire,  25,  28 

Baptistery  (Torcello),  190 

Bardi,  Simone  di,  89-91 

Barnet,  Bessy,  65 

Basil,  The  Emperor,  191 

Bassompierre,  de,  295 

Beaton,  Mary,  10,  15 

Beatrice  (Portinari),  85-89,  91,  94,  100,  loi 

Beck,  Madame,  280-282,  285,  293,  297 

Benincasa,  Catherine,  124-127,  130-134,  137,  138,   143 

Giacomo,  124-126,  130 

Lapa,  125,  130 

Bernardino,  Occhino,  133 


300  Index 


Blackwood,  170 

Boccaccio,  89,  99,  113,  150,  152,  227 

Boleyn,  Anne,  31,  33 

Bologna,  98,  208 

Boyne,  Lady,  10 

Braccio  forte,  The,  223 

Brawne,  Fanny, 171-175, 177-179 

Mrs.,  169,  177,  180 

Bretton,  Dr.  John,  282,  283,  285,  289,  292,  293,  295 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  279,  280,  282-285,  2S8,  292-295. 

Emily,  284,  285,  28S,  293,  295,  296 

Brontes,  The,  283 

Brown,  Cliarles  Armitage,  173 
Brussels,  279-281,  294,  296 
Burke,  Edmund,  55 
Burns  country.  The,  28 
Monument,  The,  26 

Robert,  19,  23,  26,  28 

William,  21 

Byron,  Ada,  216 

Lord,  170,  208-214,  216-220,  225,  227,  229 

Campanile  (Giotto's),  151,  153,  250 

(Torcello),  188,  190,  201,  203 

Careggi,  Villa,  242,  247,  250,  256,  257 
Carlyle,  Jane  Welsh,  65,  68,  70-73,  75,  78,  80 

Thomas,  67,  68,  70,  72-74,  76-78 

Carlyles,  The,  72 

Caroline,  Queen,  215 

Caterina,  Santa,  123,  144,  (s^e  Benincasa,  Catherine) 

Cathedral  (Florence),  151,  153,  234,  238,  239,  242,  251 

(Torcello),  188 

Chambers,  Robert,  6 
Charles  IL,  of  England,  54 

v.,  The  Emperor,  133 

Chatterton,  Thomas,  55 

Cheese,  Olde  Cheshire,  The,  49,  52,  61 

Cheyne  Row,  No.  24,  65,  75 

Clement  VIL,  222 

Colonna,  Vittoria,  85 

Constantine,  The  Emperor,  191 

Constantinople,  191,  199,  200 

Court,  Wine,  50 

Cowper,  William,  85 

Craigenputtock,  72,  75 


Index  301 


Dante  (Alighieri),  85-87,  89-96,  98,  100,  208,  210,  219,  220, 

222,  224,  225,  227,  229,  243,  245 
Darnley,  Henry,  5,  7,  8,  11,  13,  15 
Dauphine  of  France,  14 
Dickens,  Charles,  55 
Donati,  Corso  di,  95 

Gemma,  91-94,  96,  98-100 

Manetti,  91 

The,  92 

Doon,  The,  28 
Dryden,  227 

Duomo  (Florence),  105,  106,  112,  151,  233,  234,  237,  240,  250 

(Torcello),  190,  201 

Dtirer,  Albert,  71 

Edinburgh  Castle,  9,  10,  12 
Edward  VI.  (of  England),  32,  44 
Eliot,  George,  109 
Elizabeth,  Princess,  The,  32,  38,  39 

Queen,  4,  14,  43 

Emmanuel,  M.  Paul,  293 

Fanshawe,  Ginevra,  293 

Fiesole,  249 

Florence,  85,  94,  98-101,   107,   109,  no,  114,  118,  141,  151, 

154,  259 
Fontana  della  Barca,  165 
Fonte,  Branda,  128 
Forster,  John,  55,  73 
Fossette,  La  Rue,  280 
Fra  Angelico,  108 

Bartolommeo,  108 

Froude,  Anthony,  73,  77 
Fullonica,  The,  124 

Gamba,  The  family  of,  210 
Gardiner,  Stephen,  41 
Garibaldi,  Anita,  2oq 

Giuseppe,  209 

Garrick,  David,  55 
Gaskell,   Mrs.,  282 

Ginevra  (Amieri),  149,  150,  152,  154,  156,  158,  160 

Giotto,  151 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  49,  53,  54 

Grade,  Patriarch  of,  195,  198 


o^^  Index 

("irazzini,  244 

(Gregory  XL,  Pope,  141,  144 
(iuardarello,  Guardarelli,  224 
Guiccioli,  Count,  212 

Countess,  210,  212-215,  217,  2i3 

Gwynne,  Nell,  54 

Hampton  Court  gallery,  36 

Palace,  31,  32,  34,  37,  38,  40,  42-44 

Hawkwood,  Sir  John,  144 

Haworth,  285 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  55 
Heger,  Madame,  280 

Mademoiselle,  281,  2S3 

Pensionnat,  279,  282.  284,  296 

Henry  VIII.  of  England,  31,  32,  43,  44 
Herrick,  Robert,  55 

Hill,  Rowland,  136 
Holbein,  School  of,  32 
Holyrood  Palace,  3,  9,  10 
Hood,  Thomas,  55 
Howard,  Katherine,  32,  43 
Hunt,  Leigh,  73 

Irving,  Edward,  74 
Istria,  224 

Jaffa  (The  gate),  264 

James  I.  of  England,  S,  13,  15 

"  Jane  the  Fool,"  38 

Jerrold,  Douglas,  55 

Jerusalem,  265 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  49,  53 

Jonson,  Ben,  55 

Keats,  George,  172 

John,  165-16S,  170,  171,  173,  176-178,  i8a 


Leech,  John,  55 
Leo  X.,  222 
London,  49,  51 


Magnifico,  II,  233,  244,  246,  250,  251,  255,  256,  259 
Mantellata,  The,  125,  138 


Index  303 


Mary  Stuart,  3,  4,  y,  11,  13-15 

Tudor  of  England,  32,  33,  35,  38-40,  42,  45 

Matthews,  Charles,  55 

Mazzini,  73 

Medici,  Coat-of-Arms  of  the,  242 

Cosimo  de',  243,  244 

Giuliano,  237-239,  257 

Lorenzo  de',  237-239,  242-24S,  250,  254-259 

The,  151,  222,  237,  239-242,  247,  251 

Mercato  Vecchio,  154,  156 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  7^3 

Mirandola,  Pico  della,  250,  253,  255 

Misericordia,  The,  153 

Moore,  Charles,  O2 

Morello,  Monte,  249,  250 

Morton,  Earl  of,  7 

Murray,  Earl  of,  7,  8 

Norfolk,  Duke  of,  34,  39 
North,  Christopher,  55 

Odoacer,  227 

Oliphant,  Mrs.,  245 

Orseoli  (Doge,  Pietro),  190-197,  199,  200,  204 

Giovanni,  191,  193-195,  197 

Orso,   191-193, 195-19S,    200-202,  204 

Otto,  191,  192,  194-200,  202 

The,  192,  195,  19O 

Vitale,  19  r,  200 

Palace,  Riccardi,  247 

,  St.  James's,  42 

Palazzo  Vecchio,  114,  116,  117,  241,251 
Pallavese,  Padre  Guardiano,  223 
Parr,  Katherine,  36,  43 
Pascarel,  149,  158 
Pazzi,  Francisco,  237-240 

Jacopo,  237,  240 

The,  234,  237,  238,  241,  242,  257 

Pazzo,  233 

Pepoli,  Count,  73 

Petrarch,  85,  113 

Philip  II.  of  Spain,  35,  36,  38,  39,  41 

Piazza  di  Spagna,  165,  176 

Pineta,  The,  210,  219,  220,  225,  226 


304  Index 

Pisa,  141,  183,  218,  237,  241 
Pius  VII.,  213,  215 
Po,  The,  225 
Pocahontas,  85 
Politian,  239 
Pope,  Alexander,  55 
Poppo  of  Aquileia,  196,  197 
Portinari,  Folco,  86,  87 
Prison,  The  Fleet,  49 
Pulci,  113 

Ravenna,   99,   100,  207,  209-212,  214,  216-218,  221,    222, 

225,  226,  229 
Remus,  123 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  55 
Ridolfi,  Antonio,  239 
Rizzio,  David,  4-6,  8 
Rome,  94,  141,  166,  167,  173,    182,  215 
Romulus,  123 
Ronco,  225 

Rossetti,  William  Michael,  171,  180 
Rue  dTsabelle,  279-281 
Rulhven,  Lord,  5,  6 

San  Andrea,  Church  of,  154 

Bartolommeo,  Church  of,  155 

■ Dominico,  Church  of,  129,  131,  135 

Lorenzo,  Church  of,  151 

Marco,  Church  and  Convent  of,  105,  no,  254,  255,  257 

Marco,  Church  of  (Venice),  192 

— — Martino,  Church  of,  91,  95,  256 

Trinita  del  Monte,  165 


Santa  Croce,  Church  of,  221 

Fosca,  Church  of,  187 

Reparata,  Church  of,  233 

Santi  Antonio,  223,  224 

Savonarola,  Girolamo,  108,  no,  112,  114,  116,  118,  119,  234, 

253-256,  258, 259 
Senio,  123 

Severn,  Joseph,   166-170,  175-177,  180-182 
Seymour,  Jane,  32,  43 
Shakespeare,  22,  43,  54 

house,  19 

Shelley,  181-183 

Siena,  123,  124,  126,  130-132,  135,  138,  144 


Index  305 


Sixtus  v.,  237 

Snowe,  Lucy,  282-289,  291-293,  295,  296 

Soderini,  Family  of  the,  141 

vSouter  Johnny,  26 

Spezzia,  182 

Steps,  The  Spanish,  165 

Sterling,  Anthony,  73 

John, 73 

St,  Peter's  Church,  165 
Stratford-on-Avon,  19 
"  Supping-Room,"  The  little,  3 
Symouds,  John  Addington,  221 

Tait,  Robert,  72 

Tarn  O'Shanter,  26 

Temple  Churchyard,  49 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  40,  55,  67 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace,  55 

Thackery,  Major-General,  13 

Thames,  The,  35 

Theatre,  Blackfriars,  55 

Tinnock,  Nance,  26 

Torcello,  187,  188,  192,  193,  199,  202-204 

Tower  of  London,  44 

Trelawney,  182 

Uffizi  statue,  244 
Unwin,  Mrs.,  85 
Urban  VL,  126,  144 

Venice,  189,  190-193,  197-201,  203,  225 

Via  Cclzaioli,  155 

Via  del  Campanile,  150,  157 

Via  deila  Mo7-ie,  150,  157,  159,  i6i 

Villari,  244,  253,  254,  258 

Villette,  279,  280,  282-284,  293-295 

Voltaire,  55 

Wakefield,   ]'icarof,i,q 
Wolsey,  Thomas,  31,  35 


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Xittle  Journeys  to  tbe  Ibomes  of 
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Being  the  Series  for  1898.  By  ELBERT  HUBBARD. 
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